


Ages Gone

by disparity



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Bi Fenris, Book: Dragon Age - Last Flight, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, F/M, Grey Wardens, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Time Travel, griffons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8596927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disparity/pseuds/disparity
Summary: Hawke is lost to the Fade, and Fenris has sworn to find him. But when he steps through the rift, he does not travel to the world of dreams. Instead he finds himself in a world at war. He has arrived in the middle of the Fourth Blight, where Grey Wardens engage the horde from the sky, seated on the proud griffons that serve as their beloved icon. The only explanation for his journey is a name: Amell.





	1. Last War

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not have been possible without thepioden's extensive canon knowledge, brilliant ideas, and the [jaw-dropping art piece](http://piedpica.tumblr.com/post/153548469081/im-so-excited-to-finally-reveal-the-pieces-i) that started it all; the beta skills, including a healthy amount of cheerleading and endless patience, of [autron](http://autron.tumblr.com/) and [chlorr_no_face](http://chlorr-no-face.tumblr.com/); and the support and commiseration of the other Glow Bang authors. The experience has been in turns euphoric and hellish, and I will be forever grateful to [teamblueandangry](http://teamblueandangry.tumblr.com/) for organizing this collaboration.
> 
> Aw hell, I sound like I’m accepting an Oscar. Okay, listen: this fic has time travel and Wardens and spoiled griffons and ambushes and questionable heroics and banter. It is hella angsty and a bit ridiculous. I’ve got some vague references to gore and a fairly detailed description of dissociation. Now that you’ve been warned, you may gape some more at the gorgeous art linked above and then proceed as usual. I adore comments, so please leave them if you’re so inclined, and feel free to pop over to my [tumblr](http://disparityfics.tumblr.com/) to fangirl about all things Dragon Age or send me a prompt <3

Hawke stares into the fire as if the flames foretell defeat.

Fenris sits cross-legged next to him atop a pile of furs, their knees brushing every so often. He tears at the cooked flesh of a nug, too lost in his own mind to register the taste. Once his teeth start to clack against the delicate bone, he tosses the carcass at edge of their camp. He kicks fresh snow over it, giving it a shallow grave that will deaden the smell to the scavengers that prowl the night.

He glances back at Hawke, shifting his weight with indecision before deciding to leave him be. He goes about tending to camp, performing the familiar, repetitive tasks that let his mind wander. His boots sink into the snow with wide, clumsy steps. He retrieves a shallow trough, and the cold bites through his gloves as he fills it. He melts the snow over the fire; it is directly in Hawke's line of vision, but his eyes do not see it.

Fenris waters the horses and rubs them down, making unnecessary adjustments to the heavy pelts on their backs. When he runs out of tasks to complete, he approaches the fire with care. He kneels on the thick pelt beneath Hawke's folded legs, reaching for his belt. Hawke grabs his wrist, turning sharply.

“Your water skin,” says Fenris, extending the tips of his fingers to brush against it.

Hawke's breath is shallow. He tugs, and Fenris follows until he's hovering over Hawke, close enough to kiss if their lips weren't tough from the chill.

“I love you,” Hawke whispers.

“I love you.”

It is an argument in six words. Hawke claims it is senseless to risk them both; Fenris thinks it is more dangerous to be apart.

Hawke guides his hand, laying it across his hip. Fenris thumbs the bone, distinct even through thick layers of cloth and fur. There is too much fighting, too much running, and only meager portions of food. War has made comfort scarce and luxury nonexistent.

“If you could go someplace safe-”

“Stop.” Fenris shakes his head. His fringe brushes the cold pink tip of Hawke's nose. “There are no safe places. If this war insists on killing us, our only choice will be to die together or alone.”

“I can at least try to protect you,” Hawke croaks.

“And who will protect you?” Fenris demands. “Who will hold you when they place the world on your shoulders again? Who will share the burden?”

Hawke swallows heavily. Light from the fire throws his face into sharp relief, bringing out the amber in his eyes. “Varric said the Herald-”

“Damn the Herald,” Fenris growls, angling himself over Hawke. “And damn the Inquisition. They will use you as Kirkwall used you, and when they are through tearing you apart, they will leave you in the snow.” He swings a leg around, trapping Hawke's thighs between his knees. “I will not let them have you. You are _mine_.”

“They need me, Fenris. If I don't help them, Thedas will fall.”

“The Inquisition may borrow you,” he decides. “But I will be there at your side until they return you whole.” He places his other hand beneath Hawke's cowl, skimming leather across his jaw. “I get to have you in the end.”

***

The Herald shrinks into Varric, her neck craned like a doe's. She does not look at them, but she listens, tense and still.

“Hello,” says Hawke. He smiles, lowering his head slightly to search out her eyes. “Might you be the Herald?”

“She's the Inquisitor now,” says Varric. His hand rests at the small of her back, and he gently nudges her forward. Her boots scuff the stone. “Go on. He only bites when Fenris forgets to feed him.”

Hawke chuckles. “Luckily, we had plenty of roasted nug this morning. Fenris is quite the chef.”

She smiles, looking up at Fenris through long brown lashes. When they reach his face, her ears sink to her shoulders.

Hawke places a hand on Fenris' upper arm. He shakes it off.

“Be nice, Broody,” Varric warns. “You don't have a monopoly on suspicion just because your glare is the scariest. We're all a little more cautious than we used to be.”

Fenris grunts.

“Glad we understand each other.”

He watches Hawke lead the Inquisitor to other side of the rampart, gesturing with his hands. The wind affords them privacy as it whistles through the crenels, cold and sharp.

Varric steps back to recline against the parapet, sighing as he spreads his arms along the top. Fenris anticipates a lecture, but Varric says, “I never knew his face looked like that under all the hair. I almost didn't recognize him.”

Hawke's beard is gone and his dark, shaggy hair pulled into a neat braid. He looks like a different man, and in some ways, he is. He remains as honest and lionhearted as ever, but the rest are details that change to suit the environment. Lately the environment has not been kind. Hawke no longer wears his Champion's armor, the iconic mantle of a hero. It was sold piece-by-piece as they fled the remains of Kirkwall.

“You look a little different yourself,” Varric continues. “The ponytail suits you.”

His lip curls at the turn of phrase. He gives Varric a cursory glance and says, “You look the same.”

Varric chuckles. “Don't be fooled. I've got a few new scars.” The pause is quiet but heavy, settling over them like another layer of freezing air. Varric pulls a flask from his hip, knocking its contents back. He offers it to Fenris. “Thirsty?”

Fenris takes a drink without comment. Warmth trickles down his throat, pooling in his chest.

“I gotta say, Broody, I was half-expecting a lecture on my taste in alcohol.”

“Good wine is hard to come by these days.”

“Huh.” Varric gives Hawke a long, considering look as he reattaches his flask. “He really got rid of it all, didn't he? The entire cache?”

“We've but a few silvers between us.”

Most of the Amell fortune went into holding off the war, and when the inevitable happened, the rest was spent mitigating the consequences. Hawke poured blood and gold into a safe haven for apostates in the Dales, running himself as ragged as Anders. Fenris kept a close eye on them both, albeit for different reasons. Then a second war came, Gaspard against Celene, Orlais turned against herself.

The last safe place is gone, torn apart by a country that does not stop fighting their petty wars even as the world burns around them.

“I didn't think he'd actually do it,” Varric admits, shaking his head. He gives Fenris a sidelong glance, his expression serious. “How is he?”

“Different.” Fenris leans an elbow on the wall, the stone leeching his warmth.

“Worse?”

“Hard to say.” He works a muscle in his jaw, staring fixedly at Hawke. “He did not want me to come.”

Varric's eyebrows rise. Then they furrow, the wrinkles on his forehead settling in. “Is everything alright between you two?”

Fenris sighs. “Things are as good as they can be, considering the circumstances.”

“Well, that clears it up.”

Fenris shakes his head. He doesn’t fight the smile, this time. “It is good to see you again.”

Varric hums. “You too, Broody. You too.”

***

The pressure to strike a blow at Corypheus builds on Hawke’s shoulders, and Fenris alleviates it however he is able. They spend a week alone in Crestwood and make love in their cozy tower room at Skyhold when the day’s meetings are through. When Hawke needs his nights alone, Fenris allows him to walk the battlements in the freezing wind while he sips on cheap ale in the tavern.

On one such night, Fenris spends the better part of the evening drinking with Alistair. The Warden fails to either realize or care that Fenris is not listening to his chatter, but as the night goes on, they settle into an unlikely companionship. Still, he is glad for the solitude when Alistair at last stumbles out of the tavern singing a song about mabari hounds.

It does not last long, however. When the tavern door opens next, it reveals Ellana shaking snowflakes from her hair. She freezes when she catches Fenris’ eye, then starts toward him with her rigid posture and purposeful steps.

“Fenris,” she greets him.

“Inquisitor.”

Her vallaslin puckers around her mouth. “Please, call me Ellana.”

Fenris nods in acknowledgement.

Ellana takes the stool next to him. Her blonde hair, twisted into an elaborate array of braids, catches the low light of the tavern. This close, he can see the freckles under the markings that cover her face.

“Elgar'nan?” he inquires, gesturing to the vallaslin.

“Oh. Yes.” Her brows lift in surprise. “I thought you didn't care much for the Dalish.”

Fenris sighs. “You read Varric's book?” he guesses.

Her mouth falls open. Her blush looks uneven--concealed beneath the markings on one side, bright and obvious on the other.

“He exaggerates.”

“Of course. I shouldn't have assumed.” Ellana's tongue swipes across her bottom lip. “Well, I just wanted to say-”

“Can I get you something, little lass?” The dwarven bartender rests his elbows on the paneled wood, raising an eyebrow at her.

Ellana snaps her mouth shut, shaking her head. He shrugs and moves onto the next patron.

“They don't know your face yet?” says Fenris.

“No.”

He raises his mug to her. “They will.”

“Probably.” She watches him take a drink, pursing her lips before she says, “I wanted to tell you that I'll do everything I can to ensure Hawke's safety.”

Fenris hums, noncommittal.

Ellana leans towards him until she’s perched on the edge of her seat. “I will. I know you didn’t want Hawke to come-” Fenris stiffens. Ellana shrinks when she realizes the mistake. “At least that’s what Varric said. He told me I should come and tell you… you know, that. He said…” She pauses, tucking back a strand of hair that’s come loose from her braids. “He said you’d appreciate it.”

She does not recognize Varric’s subterfuge, but Fenris sees it clearly. Ellana is too similar to the Hawke of ten years ago. She is too earnest, too good. Fenris has seen this before; he has lived it. Varric’s intent was to show him the comparison, to force his empathy.

Ellana’s mouth tightens. “You don’t think I can. But I’ll do it anyway.”

Fenris sighs, releasing what remains of his frustration with the hot puff of air. He gestures to Cabot and orders a second tankard, sliding copper coins across the bar. He sets the drink in front of Ellana, who fails to hide her smile as she takes a sip.

***

When it comes time to travel to the Western Approach, Fenris and Hawke do so alone. Ellana has been delayed by politics, and so they scout the road ahead of her with little hurry. They spend several days resupplying Inquisition camps and tracking Venatori movements before receiving word that her party is a day out.

They make for the ritual tower, arriving ahead of her. They have every intention of waiting, until waiting turns to scouting and scouting reveals that Erimond is sacrificing Wardens to summon his demons.

“Hawke,” Fenris warns, a hand around his upper arm. It is only the two of them, and they have taken on much, but they well know a blood mage is no quick kill.

Hawke glances at the hand before his eyes travel up to Fenris'. A shout comes from the tower ahead, and Hawke's lips press together until their color is gone.

Fenris lets go.

They leave lopsided footprints in the sand. Fenris had shed his winter boots, and the grit sticks between his toes. Hawke's skin, too pale after the harsh winter months, burns redder and redder with every second it is bared beneath the sun.

Fenris follows Hawke's signals, a language of their own. He can read Hawke a hundred ways, and the look on his face as they ascend the tower says there is more than killing to be done.

They cut down demon and Warden both, and there's little enough difference. Blood runs through the cracks between the sandy stones, and none of it is Erimond's.

“You reckon we can still catch the bastard?” asks Hawke. He looks almost like his old self, down to the crimson streak across the bridge of his nose.

Fenris scales the nearest pillar; the stacked shape provides ample footholds. “He's gone west. Too far out to pursue. He appears to be using some manner of magic to travel.” He leaps down, avoiding the red pools at his feet.

“What color is the corona?” asks Hawke, his nose wrinkling beneath the blood.

“Blue. It appears similar to Solas's rift manipulation in Crestwood.”

“Huh. More Fade tricks.” Hawke slings his staff over his back and kneels down, methodically looting the Wardens' bodies. “I feel very behind the times these days.”

Fenris grunts. “Living on the run will do that to you.”

He assists Hawke in the salvage, pulling at the steel cuirass of a Warden who attempted to flee. He thumbs the griffon relief; delicate metalwork will fetch a fair price in Val Royeaux.

“What do you think’s keeping Ellana?” asks Hawke, examining a Warden mage’s staff. He retrieves his own to compare the length.

Fenris glances to the south. He sees shapes in the distance, though it may be trick of the heat. “A pack of enterprising hyenas?” he suggests, and then more seriously, “Perhaps Venatori. Should we scout for her?”

Hawke shakes his head and says, “I think she might resent that.”

“Mmm. The two of you are similar that way.”

Fenris doesn’t mean to dredge up the argument, but he does it all the same. There is no taking it back. Hawke will not let the comment pass without saying his piece.

“You just couldn’t resist.”

“I am sorry.”

Hawke pries off a gauntlet with a screech. “You insist on being constantly by my side despite the risk to yourself. I try to keep you safe, and you react like I’m saying I don’t need your help.” He removes the other gauntlet and flings them both aside. The metal screeches against the stone. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“I know.”

“Don’t capitulate.”

“You’d rather argue?”

Hawke sighs. “No.” He stops, placing his hands on his knees. “I just want you to understand.”

“I do understand,” says Fenris. He removes a ring from one of the mage’s hands and tosses it to Hawke. “I simply do not agree with your conclusion.”

Hawke takes his time inspecting the ring. Fenris prepares for a rebuttal, but Hawke only says, “I think this is a real ruby.”

“Keep it. As a gift.”

“A gift pried from the finger of a dead blood mage?” Hawke pulls up half his mouth and forgets the rest. “My dear, you really shouldn’t have.”

By the time the rest of their party arrives, the bodies have been stripped and burned. Hawke offers the good scraps to Ellana, who balks.

“You _looted_ them?” Her mouth hangs wide, fingers touching her bottom lip.

“No sense in leaving it for someone else,” says Hawke. “At least we’ll do some good with it.”

“But these were good people! They’ve made a mistake, but they don’t deserve to be desecrated!”

Hawke’s brow puckers. He turns to Fenris, who shrugs and lifts the sack of loot over his shoulder. Honor is costly, and they haven’t been able to afford it in years.

***

Preparations begin for the siege of Adamant. Resources are pooled, armor and weapons commissioned, and the sound of steel-on-steel rings through the courtyard at every time of day. The various ambassadors and dignitaries that have taken up residence at Skyhold complain about the noise. There is a rumor that the Inquisitor lost her patience after being cornered one too many times by nobles in the main hall and delivered an impassioned speech on war and sacrifice that moved everyone in the vicinity to tears.

For Fenris and Hawke, the days are occupied with training. Fenris’ time is split between sparring with Alistair and fighting by his side against a variety of swords, daggers, and magic. Too often, he finds himself looking for Hawke, diverting his attention from his training.

He is leaning against the fencepost during a short break, watching Hawke make animated gestures to a group of soldiers, when cold water soaks his hair. He turns to grab Alistair’s wrist, but the move is expected. Alistair dodges with a laugh.

“Welcome back to Skyhold, messere,” he says, giving a slight bow. “I’ll be serving you today. Our main course will be your backside.”

Fenris lifts the blunted broadsword that lies against the fence. Alistair fetches his shield, hauling it up just in time to block Fenris’ swing. He continues to laugh as Fenris chases him around the ring, dodging each attack. His sword still lies in the dirt; he makes a break for it, and Fenris catches him in the ribs.

“Well, I suppose I do deserve a good bruise for that one.” He’s still grinning as he rubs his side.

“Retrieve your weapon,” says Fenris, adjusting his grip.

“It occurs to me that I have made a terrible mistake.” Alistair lifts the longsword, his grin turning rueful. “I don’t suppose an apology would-”

Fenris lunges, and Alistair executes a sloppy but effective parry.

“So that’ll be a ‘no.’ ” Alistair grunts. “Have it your way, then.”

When the day is gone and Alistair has saluted him with a grimace, Fenris finds Hawke dismissing the last of his men. He looks tired, but his eyes are alight with an energy that is nothing short of remarkable these days.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Fenris says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the fencing.

Hawke turns around, his lips tensing against a smile. “Well, one of us ought to.” He approaches for a quick kiss. The fence stands between them, and Hawke grips it on either side of Fenris’ arms. “Don’t be angry with her, love. It’s a good plan.”

Fenris grunts.

“You know it is,” says Hawke. When Fenris does not respond, he shakes his head. “Sometimes I swear you’re just contrary for the sake of it.”

He climbs over the fence, pulling Fenris into his arms. Fenris sighs against him, relaxing his sore muscles. Alistair gave him a good fight. Their abilities are well-matched. When they go into battle side-by-side, no foe will stand against them for long.

“Everything’s coming together nicely,” says Hawke as they part. They head for the tower in unspoken agreement. “I think Cullen will have you and Ellana go in first, and then my team will clear the way for the bulk of the Inquisition's forces. I’ve got two archers--did I tell you? You _must_ see them when we do moving target practice. It’s brilliant.”

Cullen is a skilled tactician and Hawke a proven leader. Fenris has found no fault with the strategy, despite his many attempts to do so. His only complaint is that he will not be by Hawke’s side when they take Adamant.

“ _Fenris_.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re brooding.” Hawke nudges him. “It’ll be fine. Maker knows we’ve come up against worse odds.”

Fenris nods; they have. _Together_.

***

He and Hawke part with a kiss at the splintered gate. He has faith Hawke will command his small party of infiltrators with the same finesse he did in Kirkwall. For all it has cost him, Hawke leads as though destined for it.

Fenris and Alistair serve as Ellana’s vanguard, occupying the demons with taunts and swift, powerful strikes. The Seeker defends the other members of their party, cutting down enemies who break directly for Ellana. She draws attention with her colorful spells, but she comes to no harm. Fenris can feel her barriers close to his skin, absorbing the blows he fails to evade.

Ellana's impassioned pleas manage to sway the Wardens who are not committed to this final desperate act. It bolsters Alistair's spirit, and when he slices through the demons, he grins. The energy is infectious. The blood they spill belongs to monsters, not men, and there is hope in Ellana’s eyes.

Fenris watches it climb to a peak, then topple when the dragon arrives.

The beast tears through the ruin of Adamant, and soldiers and Wardens dive to avoid falling rubble. Fenris loses Ellana in the chaos, the dragon’s assault driving him into an alcove. The wreckage of a pillar obstructs his path, and he is forced to remove his cuirass to pull himself through the narrow gap that is his only escape.

He retrieves his sword and leaves the armor, searching for Hawke in the fray. After several unsuccessful minutes, he has the idea to look for the dragon instead. Only then does he see Hawke high on the exposed second floor.

He scales the ruins, faltering over stone that crumbles beneath his feet. He’s nearly there when the foundations of Adamant shake, throwing his balance. The same tremor cracks the platform that supports Hawke and Ellana, and they begin to fall.

Fenris knows it is too late, knows there is too much distance between them to cover in the space of seconds. The knowledge does not stop him from sprinting across the main hall in a frenzied race he cannot win.

He has fought a losing fight from the moment he fell in love with Hawke. He has battled the world for this man, raging against everything that threatens ruin, and still they crumble. Hawke could never ignore injustice or cruelty, the things that draw him away from Fenris no matter how tightly he holds. The truth is that Hawke has never belonged to him. Hawke never even belonged to himself.

Fenris has never been one for hope, and yet, there is glimmer of it in the rift that swallows Hawke before he hits the ground. The hope is not for peace or contentment or happily ever after. The hope is to delay the loss that will happen one day, regardless of the sweat and blood he pours into preventing it. He will lose Hawke now or later, and he hopes for later. The loss will not be any easier to bear then, but there will be more stolen moments in between, and those are what he lives for.

He is anchored in this moment of uncertain hope, tense with frantic energy. He gives it a purpose, throwing it into clearing rubble to check for survivors. Still he stares at the green fissure in the middle of the hall. He is in turns confident of Ellana’s capability to bring them back through and certain this is the last moment he will have some semblance of life before he is dead to the world again.

He thinks of his years as a slave, living outside himself as an alternative to the cruel reality. He learned, slowly, how to anchor himself in the moment, how to make his own decisions and care for the life he was given. Still, it is a constant battle, and lately he loses it when Hawke leaves his side. Without Hawke, there is no reason to exist. He will slip away and leave his body behind; he can feel it happening already, another war waged in his mind.

He cannot tell, in the breaths between hope and despair, whether he is praying. True that he does not kneel at Andraste's feet; he does not lift his voice to join the Chant when its strains echo through the battlefield. But there is supplication in the way he gazes at the rift, soliciting answers in the pulsing green light. It casts eerie shadows along the stone, and Fenris watches them sway until muted sounds remind him there is still a world beneath his feet.

The waiting ends when figures tumble out of the rift. It closes behind them with a bright snap, and every eye is turned in awe. The Inquisitor has stepped out of the Fade once more.

Fenris searches for a single face amongst the returning heroes, and he does not find it.

He shoves through the crowd, unconscious of the movement until Alistair’s bloody gauntlet halts it. He and Cassandra stand side-by-side, a shield between Fenris and Ellana.

“It wasn’t her fault,” says Alistair, conviction and pity waging war across his face.

“It’s alright, Alistair.”

A pale hand touches Cassandra’s shoulder. The Seeker throws a glare at Fenris before stepping aside. Ellana emerges between the two warriors, eyes affixed to the blood-soaked stone beneath her feet. She lifts them as though they are weighted, and when they find his, Fenris knows that the last of the innocence in this world is gone.

“Hawke stayed behind to cover our escape. He said to tell you...” Her voice wavers, lowering to a hoarse whisper. “He said, 'Fenris will find me. Tell him I'll be waiting at the temple.' ”

“Open the rift.”

“Slow down there, Broody.” Varric steps forward from the crowd, holding his palms up. “You don't have a way out of there. There’s no sense in losing you both.”

“Open it.”

Ellana swallows and looks behind her. “It’ll certainly be risky after everything that’s happened here, and I’m not quite sure you’ll end up where you want to.” When she turns back, her hand glows green. “But I’ll help you try.”

She throws her left hand skyward, closing her eyes against the light.

The Fade cracks open, and Fenris steps inside.


	2. The Fade

In the Fade, Adamant looks more the fortress and less the ruin. Fenris cannot see the sick green sky over his head or the hazy fog that roll across the world of dreams. The main hall is enclosed on all sides, intact and richly decorated. Ornamental shields and crests line the walls, catching the light of flames in iron brackets. Heavy carpets are draped across the stone, dampening the echo of voices and footfalls. The demons of this demesne have expensive taste.

There are six of them in the hall: two before him and four at his back. They have taken the shape of Grey Wardens, perhaps due to the locale. They are well-armed, and they stand in his way of finding Hawke. It will be their last mistake.

He draws his greatsword and prepares to strike the nearest demon, who wears the skin of a human woman. Before he can lift it above his head, the demon thrusts its bare hand forward and freezes his hands to the pommel. His swing is misbalanced, and the demon slips to the side.

“Halt, intruder!” shouts another demon; this one bears the sigil of a Warden-Commander. “Drop your weapon!”

It is impossible to do so with his hands affixed to it, but this does not concern Fenris, who has no intention of disarming. He can still maneuver the weapon, though he must compensate for the grip. He gathers his weight for another strike. At the apex of his swing, the ice around his hands is rapidly consumed by fire, and the sword slips from his grasp. It soars across the hall, colliding with the wall in a resounding clang.

Fenris has little time to mourn it with the warrior closing in. He pulls on the lyrium burned into his skin and reaches for the mage; with no ranged support, it is essential he kill her first. She chooses to flee rather than attack, and it is the only thing that saves her. She ducks beneath the commander’s sword arm, and Fenris is forced to remove his heart instead of hers.

An arrow phases through his back, striking the stone. He can hear the shouts from behind him, but his eyes are on the mage, who stands battle-ready despite her apparent horror. Her wide stance is a challenge. Fenris knows a trap when he sees one, and he must either walk into it or turn his back on her.

The decision is made for him when a dagger jabs the place his kidney ought to be. The rogue who struck him passes through his incorporeal body, thrown off-balance. Fenris tears her heart out through her back.

He can feel the lyrium protesting the heavy use. The rogue may have done him in after all. The weight of her body has taxed him, and his markings flicker in the dim light.

The next time Fenris reaches for a demon’s heart, it instead cracks against a barrier that consumes the last of his reserve. He strikes with his fists, but they cannot penetrate the demons’ armor. He fights until large blocks of ice freeze his feet to the floor. Even so impaired, he snarls at the demons until they back away.

“You will not keep me from Hawke, foul demons!” he shouts, tensing his legs in a useless attempt to escape.

“That’s a fine accusation from a creature that just leapt out of the Fade.” The mage gestures to the center of the hall. There is nothing there now, though he supposes it is where the rift appeared. She turns to the archer and says, “Fetch your second-in-command. It seems Adamant has a matter of succession to settle.”

The archer bends to retrieve his arrow, looking first at Fenris and then at the fallen commander. “But Fernand-”

“Your commander’s heart lies bloody on the ground, Warden,” says the mage. “His successor must decide what to do with the thing that tore it out, so  _ fetch _ .”

The archer winces before disappearing from the hall. The other demons regard Fenris with sheer terror, and he growls at them.

“You two.” The mage nods at the remaining warriors. “Either of you know a Warden Hawke?”

The man shakes his head, but the woman hesitates. “We have accepted many new recruits,” she says. “One of them may be called Hawke.”

“Check with the chamberlain to be certain. If there is a Hawke, bring them here.”

The woman goes without protest.

Fenris narrows his eyes at the demon-mage. It is toying with him, he is certain. He will figure out its game, and then he will find Hawke. They will leave this den of deceit and return to a world Fenris has never thought to miss before this moment.

“You. Guard the doors. The only boot that crosses that threshold belongs to the next Warden-Commander. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Fenris does not watch him leave, his attention reserved for the mage alone as the heavy doors thunk closed. Whatever breed of demon she is, she has power in this demesne of the Fade. She will attempt to trick him, pose riddles or make double-edged offers for his soul. He will not give in to her lies.

The mage returns his stare. He reads animosity in every line of her body, from the tense set of her shoulders to the white-knuckled grip on her staff. “So this Hawke, then? A mage?”

“You know exactly what he is, and you will bring him to me-”

“I  _ am _ bringing him to you,” she points out. His lip curls. “Perhaps he can tell me what in Andraste’s name you are, because I don’t get the impression you’re one for talking.”

“I have nothing to say to you, demon,” he growls. “You will not beguile me.”

“What’s this ‘demon’ business about?” She waves her hand as though batting away an insect. “I’m no abomination. Or are you speaking figuratively?”

There is a thread of thought in his mind that insists something is  _ wrong _ . Of course it is wrong--he is not by Hawke’s side, so it cannot be  _ right _ \--but he thinks he may be missing something. The feeling make him uneasy.

He hesitates on his next question. When he asks, there is less accusation and more uncertainty. “Is this not the Fade? What would you be other than a demon in the costume of a mage?”

“This is Adamant Fortress. You  _ came _ from the Fade.” She pauses, her brow furrowing. “Or didn’t you?”

“I came through it.” He searches every corner, looking for the thing that is wrong. There  _ is _ something--he knows it now, down to his bones. Something has gone terribly wrong. “Where is this place?”

“Adamant,” she repeats, and then more slowly, “Orlais. Thedas?”

The thought clicks in his mind, and once it is there, he can think of nothing else. This one thought resonates through his entire being, shaking him to the core. He locks his eyes with her in a mirror of dread. “When?”

Her mouth opens, then closes. “Why would you…?” Her brow pulls tighter. She observes him closely as she says, “It’s Cassus, 5:18 Exalted.”

He hears her words, but they do not remain in his mind. They pass through it because he will not let them in.

“No,” he says, unaware he is saying it until he hears the hoarse whisper from his lips. “Where is Hawke?  _ Where is Hawke? _ ”

“We search him out at this very moment. What do you want him for?”

“Why?” Fenris mutters. “Why here? Why now?”

He cannot  _ think _ . Nothing will stick because nothing makes a shadow of sense. Why is he here? Why would the rift send him here, a time ages past, to this  _ mage _ -

“Who are you?” he demands. “Why did it send me to you?”

She draws back, shaking her head. She mouths something to herself, then looks up and says, “You first. A name, at least.”

“Fenris.”

The mage hesitates, glancing at the fingers that grip her staff. She loosens them one by one.

Fenris pushes air out through his gritted teeth. “Your  _ name _ .”

“Amell.”

***

The new Warden-Commander is a thin man with a thinner mustache who arrives with a great creak of the hall doors. Fenris hardly spares him a glance before returning to his study of Amell.

Her ears are large, turned forward at an unusual angle. Her features are unremarkable otherwise, though when he looks closely, he notices that the tip of her nose turns up. He sees nothing of Hawke in her save perhaps the dark hair that hangs past her chin.

“Amell! I hear you are ordering my Wardens about,” says the commander, his steps echoing on the stone.

Amell’s mouth twists as she performs a salute. “Commander Baptiste.”

“Is that all you have to say?” The man appears at Amell’s side, and Fenris at last diverts his attention from her face. “You have been causing problems since the moment you flew in on that fussy bird of yours, and I am not surprised in the least to find you at the heart of another.”

Amell sets her jaw, offering no comment.

The man scoffs, then occupies himself with looking over the remains on the hall floor. His nose wrinkles. “Disgusting.” He regards Fenris with disapproval. “I don’t suppose you have some excuse for this garish display?”

Fenris says nothing. There are times he must grip the world with white knuckles to keep himself from falling out of it, but he can feel his fingers working loose. What point is there in holding on to a world that Hawke does not inhabit? The feeling is familiar, the warmth spreading through his limbs, the blurring of vision. He lets it take until he is far enough that sounds only reaches him as though from a great distance. His body moves of its accord, continuing without his interference.

“What happened?”

“He entered the hall from what appeared to be a Fade rift, ser. He killed the commander and… The other one.”

“An  _ elf _ ?” He meets Fenris’ blank expression with a sneer. “I thought it was some terrifying manner of demon. It is an elf!”

“His name is Fenris,” says Amell. “He came looking for someone called Hawke, but I suspect whatever magic brought him here was unstable. It was certainly powerful; tearing the Veil’s not quite as easy as it sounds.” Her next words are directed at Fenris. “Do feel free to explain that.”

“Only I will speak to the prisoner!”

“You may speak  _ at _ me all you like,” Fenris mutters. The mage’s face swims into sharp focus for a moment, and he exhales as it falls away. “I will only speak with Amell.”

The commander’s cheeks flush red. Amell looks surprised, her brow rising and then puckering again.

“Fine!” says Baptiste. “Then she can have you.”

He marches off to the main doors, throwing them open. Amell pauses before following him, her steps quick and light.

“Prepare the Joining,” Baptise commands. Footsteps echo down the hall.

“Commander-” says Amell.

“I will have none of your protests! You came for a rider, did you not? There he is!”

“Ser, he isn’t trained-”

“Ha! He has killed Fernand; I am certain he is a capable warrior! A fine choice indeed. I shall be inconsolable to lose to him to you.”

“Ser, his abilities are like no magic I’ve ever seen. We don’t even know what he is!”

“If he survives the Joining, then I do not care what he is.”

Fenris remains frozen to the floor until they bring a silver chalice to his lips.

***

They dress him in blue and silver. He traces the griffon motif with his fingers until there is a knock at the door. “Time to keep those oaths you swore,” says Amell, and she does not wait for him to follow.

He draws even with her in the corridor, eying the greatsword strapped to her back. She gives him a questioning look, shifting under the weight before she faces forward again.

“You’ll have to meet my griffon first,” says Amell, giving no inclination that she is speaking to him. “If he doesn’t like you, Baptiste will throw you on the front lines with the infantry.”

Fenris walks in silence. Amell forces a short breath through her nose. Her right fist clenches, then reaches out to grip his arm. They halt in the corridor. Several Wardens pass them by, annoyed until they catch sight of the sigil on Amell’s breast. It earns her several salutes, which she disregards.

“You came out of that rift fighting for your life, and now you don’t give a damn about it?”

He shakes his head, the motion slow and heavy. “Hawke is gone.”

It is the only thing that matters. It is a constant mantra in his head, a steady beat that pulses through him. Hawke is gone, and in some way, Fenris has gone with him.

Amell thumps a fist against his breastplate. “Well, there are other people who need you. There’s a Blight on, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Hawke is gone,” he repeats. “There is no way back to him. He is alone.”

Sympathy looks strange on her face, twisting her features into an ugly expression. Her fist falls.

“If you ruin this for me,” she says, “then I don’t care how many sob stories you’ve got to tell.”

She turns and continues down the hall, and Fenris follows. It does not matter where he goes. Nothing in this world is of any consequence when there is nothing in it that can bring him to Hawke.

***

They cross through the outer bailey, where Wardens drill in formation. The midday sun startles Fenris. If there was any doubt that this is not the Fade, it is gone when he sees the open sky, clear and blue with no Black City in the distance. He does not realize he was still holding a thread of hope until it is cut.

A platoon of Wardens on the far side of the bailey is dismissed for the day, and they scatter from their tight lines. The others eye them with jealousy as they pass, faces flushed with exertion. Fenris pulls at the collar of his gambeson. Already it is damp with sweat, and the glint of his own chainmail is blinding. His hair hangs heavy on the back of his neck.

Wardens salute as they pass Amell, though several of them forego the gesture and instead eye her with distaste. Amell ignores them, staring straight ahead as she cuts through the courtyard.

The aerie overlooks the Abyssal Rift, staring down into its gaping maw. Wooden beams support a number of platforms interconnected with ladders; it is a haphazard array that throws the world into sudden relief. It is difficult to be anywhere but present when one misstep could send him to his death. He feels the surge of an unwelcome thrill as he looks down and resolves not to do so again.

When they reach main platform--the widest of them, with a clear view of the entire aerie--he finds the place reminiscent of a stable. The only apparent difference is in the lack of stalls and perhaps a slight variation in smell, to say nothing of the fatal drop into the canyon below.

Amell looks around the aerie and sighs. There is a series of thumps and creaks as an attendant clambers up from another platform with feathers in his hair. “Lieutenant Amell!” His voice is pitched high, his fingers twisting together. “Ah. Your griffon-”

“Has mysteriously disappeared because you attempted to give him griffon feed despite my very specific instructions.”

The attendant stops fidgeting, then starts again in earnest. “The roostmaster said-”

“I believe I can guess what she said, thank you.” Amell turns to Fenris and says, “Best cover your ears.”

She does not wait for him to do so before placing two fingers inside her mouth and forcing air out in a sharp whistle. Fenris covers his ears too late, and they ring with the sound for several seconds. The tight grin she shoots him suggests this was not entirely accidental.

Amell scales another ladder to reach the highest platform. The structure looks precarious, but Amell does not seem concerned as to its integrity. Fenris follows her, carefully placing each step. The blood leaves his knuckles as he grips the railing; the world is so sharp it looks fractured.

He hears the griffon before he sees it. The sound of wings comes from beneath them, and Amell smiles. She climbs atop the railing, throws her arms out to either side, and leaps into the abyss.

Something creaks behind Fenris, and he whirls around to face it, grabbing for a weapon that isn't there. The attendant ducks his head and says, “Pardon me, Monsieur. I love to watch her jump.”

Fenris turns back toward the rift, his hands affixed to the railing. He refuses to look below the skyline.

His first glance of the griffon is a flurry of grey. It is accompanied by a strong wind as the creature buffets air with his wings. The beast soars in an arc around the aerie, and Fenris follows with his eyes. He has seen nothing that could compare with the size, and the griffon only grows bigger as he circles back around to land.

The air roils around him, beaten into a frenzy. It pushes and pulls at his loose hair, obstructing his vision. He cannot spare a hand to push it back, and he stares at the griffon through his white fringe. The beast’s long talons clack against the wood, his wings fluttering until they settle at his side. His beak is curved and sharp, his eyes golden above it.

His long tail twitches behind him, and Amell’s hand brushes his neck. “Don’t fret, love,” she soothes. “He’s one of ours.”

Amell slides from his back, then crosses in front of him to run her fingers through the feathers on his breast.

“Relax your muscles, Fenris,” she says in the same gentle tone. Fenris wrinkles his nose. “He can read your body language. He knows you’re tense, and he doesn’t like it.”

Fenris has no desire to learn what the bird does to things he dislikes. He loosens his grip on the railing and rolls each of his shoulders. He keeps his eyes on the griffon, who does the same.

“Good. His name is Steelwing. Call him, will you? Softly. Like a lover.”

“Steelwing,” says Fenris, decidedly nothing like a lover. The griffon’s head twitches at the name, and he chirps softly.

“There. See?” Fenris cannot decide which of them Amell is speaking to. “Now you know him. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

The griffon cranes its neck forward, and Amell steps out of the way. Fenris can feel the strain in his muscles and takes a deep breath. He lets the tension out with it, as much of it as he can. The beast could kill him in an instant; but Fenris has stood before many things that intended to kill him, and he is still standing.

The griffon steps forward, and Fenris matches the gesture. Steelwing twitches, considering him for a moment before taking two more small steps that scrape against the wood. Fenris takes two of his own.

They are quite close now. The next step will take him within range of that sharp beak. Fenris waits for the griffon to move, but he does not. Fenris, then, makes the gesture. Steelwing chirps. He shuffles forward, his wings rustling on either side of him, close enough to touch.

Fenris keeps his eyes affixed to those golden ones as he reaches an arm forward. His fingers graze the white-tipped feathers of Steelwing’s breast, then push forward until they reach flesh.

Fenris moves his hand on the next steady exhale, stroking slowly along the breast. He combs through the feathers, then smooths them down, losing himself in the motion. He thinks of nothing in this moment. Not of failure, not of grief. He does not consider the past or the future. He connects with something alive and proud, and for a moment, that is all he feels.

“Well, look at that,” says Amell. Steelwing straightens at the sound of her voice, and Fenris drops his hand. “Birds of a feather, you are.”

“How fortunate,” says the attendant. He hands Amell a saddle and reins, and she clucks her tongue as she takes them.

“For all of us, I imagine. You fussy bird.” She holds the saddle up. “Let’s get you a proper meal, shall we?”

Fenris hugs the railing as she prepares Steelwing. The griffon shifts under her attentions and once makes a sound Fenris can only describe as a purr. Fenris himself is less content, unsettled by his connection with the beast. It feels wrong to be anything less than miserable, even for a moment.

When Amell gestures him over, he comes to Steelwing’s side. Amell unstraps the greatsword from her back and holds it out to him. When he lays a hand on it, she does not let go.

“A griffon’s trust is no small thing. Particularly from this one.” She holds Fenris’ eyes for a moment, then releases the sword. “Do not betray it.”

In this, Fenris hears:  _ Do not betray me. _

***

Amell gives him no instruction. She hauls him onto Steelwing’s back and takes off with only a click of her tongue as warning. Fenris clenches his thighs and grips the back of the saddle, every muscle in his body on alert.

The wind is perhaps most disorienting. He can hear nothing over it save the beating of wings. The next is the height; though Fenris does not look down, the view of the sky all around him flips his stomach. He tries to close his eyes, but that is worse. Without sight, the movement beneath him is twice as jarring. There is an unfamiliar rhythm to it, and Fenris cannot decide whether he should lean into the crests and falls or resist them.

He does not know how much time passes before Amell lets out a long whistle. Steelwing descends onto a barren expanse of earth that appears indistinguishable from any other. The landing jolts Fenris, who grunts with the motion. Amell dismounts with a roll, pivoting as soon as she’s on her feet.

“Take a crack at that one,” she says. “It’s easier than landing on your feet.”

Fenris hisses as his muscles unclench. He swings a leg around the seat, adjusting his sword. He loosens up as much as possible and leaps from the griffon’s back. He lands on the balls of his feet and pushes his weight forward onto his hands, then shoulder, then feet again. He fails to compensate adequately for the sand, and he’s stiff from the flight; overall, it is inelegant but satisfactory.

Amell nods and says, “Remove the saddle.”

She rubs down Steelwing’s neck and breast while Fenris attempts to locate every necessary buckle. He thinks he has them all until he pulls and finds it caught. Once he at last manages to undo the contraption, he offers it to Amell. She jerks her chin at the sand.

“Go off and feed, then.” She pats Steelwing, who departs without a moment’s hesitance. Fenris irritably sweeps the hair from his eyes, dropping the saddle and its accouterments on the ground.

Amell comes over to rifle through the saddlebags, removing a waterskin and a bedroll. The first she tosses to Fenris, who leans forward to catch it, and the second she lays out on the sand. She unrolls the bundle, removes her shoes and brigandine, and tucks herself into the canvas, telling Fenris to, “Wake me if something tries to kill us.”

Fenris does not suspect she is sleeping, though she is certainly dedicated to the ruse. He feels some degree of offense over her meager estimation of his intelligence. If he did intend to kill her, he would not be so foolish as to do it here. Her trap is useless. He is on alert as he waits for her to spring it, eying her prone form with suspicion.

He expects her to give up this charade when it is clear he does not have murderous intent, but she remains in her bedroll until Steelwing returns. She appears groggy when she emerges, and Fenris doubts himself. He narrows his eyes at Amell, frowning.

She shouts as Steelwing drops his kill onto the sand. “What is that?” Amell pulls her legs out of the bedroll and jogs over in her bare feet to inspect it. “A varghest? No, you can’t  _ eat _ that.”

Steelwing squawks, bobbing his head at the creature. Fenris gets to his feet to inspect it.

“It’s still alive,” he says, watching it twitch.

“Of course it’s still alive.” She gestures at it and says, “It’s a bloody varghest! It’s got  _ scales _ and  _ spikes _ , for Andraste’s sake--why would you ever put that in your mouth?”

Steelwing makes a succession of high-pitched noises, and Amell raises her voice over the sound.

“Oh, no, I’m not killing that for you. You think I’m going to peel off all those scales just to satisfy your curiosity? That is not happening. Maker, but I haven’t the slightest idea how you-”

Fenris removes the head of the varghest with one swing, silencing them both. Blood splashes his chin, and he wipes it away with the collar of his gambeson. He kneels over the corpse and pulls out a small knife with an elaborate handle, wedging the blade carefully between gum and teeth. He picks the bones out one by one, appreciating the silence as he works.

After some time, Amell says, “Thank you for that stunning display of solidarity, Fenris,” and returns to her bedroll.

***

As the week wears on, they travel to Warden outposts across the deserts of Orlais with supplies and messages. They circle over pockets of darkspawn, engaging none of them. When Amell meets with other Wardens, she does so alone, and Fenris is instructed to await her return in the aerie.

At every stop, Amell runs him through a set of drills that is never consistent. He practices mounting and dismounting until he is sore from his missteps, the times he lands wrong or is simply pushed from Steelwing’s back by Amell, who scolds, “Your  _ thighs, _ Fenris,” over and over again. He is so occupied learning the moves that he forgets to live outside himself, though he feels it is all he ought to do now that Hawke is gone.

They sleep beneath the stars, though it is not always at night. Amell stops when she is tired, and they rest for a few hours before moving on. In the first week, Fenris does not sleep deeply enough to dream--he keeps himself awake with guilt and sorrow. He wishes for Hawke beside him, and he wakes alone.

When he does dream of the archdemon, it is first a dream of Hawke.  _ They are in a tent deep in the Frostbacks, huddled beneath heavy furs. Snowfall deadens the world outside; soon it will bury them, but they do not care. They are content to be buried, as long as they are together. _

_ The ground shakes beneath them, and Fenris holds tighter. _

_ “We have to go outside, Fenris,” says Hawke. “We have to help them.” _

_ “Who? There is no one but us.” _

_ Only then does he hear the cries. He knows, with inconscient certainty of a dreamer, that they were always there. He chose his deafness. Now that he is able to hear, he cannot ignore them. _

_ They emerge naked into the snow, feeling no chill. There is a gaping crack in the world, crooked and red as the maw of some great beast. Scores of people teeter on the edge, falling in as the ground crumbles beneath their feet. _

_ “Run!” shouts Hawke, but they do not. They remain where they are, desperately attempting to balance. _

_ Two red orbs appear in the snow above the crack. That great chasm widens and lets out a roar, and everyone at the edge falls inside. The eyes and mouth rise from the ground, revealing the face of a creature of impossible size. _

_ Fenris finds himself armed and armored, a warrior in blue and silver. He turns to Hawke only to discover that he is alone. The beast ascends, snow dripping from its scales. The earth trembles as the body of the dragon emerges, wings lifting its massive body into the sky. _

Fenris wakes with a start. His bedroll is soured with sweat, the sun hanging hot above him. He hears a chirp and tenses for battle before realizing it came from Steelwing. The sound of it rouses Amell, who leaps out of her bedroll into a defensive stance.

The griffon chirps again, and Amell gives him a questioning look before taking stock of Fenris. He sits up straight, his back rigid, fists clenching the canvas. She relaxes.

“Archdemon, was it?” she asks. He grunts in response, and she shrugs. “You’ll get a few of those. Blight’s on and all that. Occupational perks.” She waves her hand, mumbling something Fenris doesn’t catch.

Amell crouches and lifts the end of her bedroll to shake out the sand. Fenris copies the gesture. Once finished, he rolls the canvas up and secures it with leather ties.

“Feeding time?” Amell asks of Steelwing, who preens and stretches his wings before taking off.

Fenris packs his bedroll in a saddlebag, removing a waterskin and a portion of hardtack. He sits cross-legged on the sand to eat his meal. The tough biscuit cracks in his hands, pieces of it crumbling onto his loose linen shirt.

He pulls the garment over his head as he stands, retrieving his armor. Amell assists him with the clasps he cannot reach, and he in turn fastens the buckles on her brigandine. They perform the ritual in silence.

When it is finished, Fenris lifts his weapon and cycles through his training routine with unusual vigor. He throws himself into the movements, striking and thrusting at the air. He throws in a few of Amell’s rolls, which she apparently favors in battle as well as flying. She performs acrobatic strikes with her feet and her long, blunt staff, kicking up sand and sharp spikes of ice.

She stops before Fenris does, watching him as she takes long pulls of water. His eyes connect with hers only once, and he sees her brow wrinkled above them.

Fenris drills until Steelwing returns, slick with the blood of a messy kill. Amell talks to the griffon as she grooms him; she does this often, and Fenris is never certain how much Steelwing understands. He busies himself with preparing the saddle. He and Amell fit it on Steelwing’s back, methodically checking the straps with gentle tugs.

“Fancy killing some darkspawn today?” she asks as they mount.

Fenris grunts. “I’d like to kill something.”

Amell’s head makes a quarter-turn back, revealing the corner of a smile. She clicks her tongue, and they take to the sky.

***

Fenris recognizes the place when they fly past a rocky crag that Amell once pushed him off the top of. “He’ll catch you,” she insisted. Steelwing did indeed catch him, and Fenris still has intimate bruises from the landing.

He remembers spotting a small party of darkspawn west of the ridge, twenty of them at most, and again wondering why Amell showed so little concern. The group has moved on now, but Steelwing’s keen sight and Amell’s Warden senses track them easily. They are tucked beneath a rocky outcrop, traveling along the ridge in the shade.

Amell shouts instructions over her shoulder. “We’ll drop you in, then circle back around! Get as close as you can before you dismount, but be certain you’ve enough room to land and draw! I’ll keep a barrier on you until I drop!”

Steelwing soars over the ridge, dipping beneath it just as they come upon the darkspawn. He slows but does not land, and Fenris realizes a second too late that he’s not going to.

He throws himself from the griffon’s back, but that second’s hesitation puts him off the mark. He is too far from the darkspawn, and this gives them time to draw their weapons and charge. Whatever advantage surprise would have given them has been cut, as have the odds of leaving the battlefield unscathed.

Fenris determines all of this in the moment before his feet hit the ground. The sand tears at his armor as he rolls; he lands with too much force on his shoulder, already sore from the relentless practice. It aches as he draws his sword, and he moves through the pain. He has endured far worse and will continue to endure; he is made for it.

The arrows come first, glancing off Amell’s barrier. It flickers with each blow but holds firm. Fenris can hear it humming around him as he rushes to meet his enemy.

As they close in, the darkspawn attempt to flank him. They break into two forces and spread out on either side of him. Fenris charges straight through the middle of the first group, skewering a genlock and placing himself on the other side of their force. Now the second group will be forced to cover the distance, giving Fenris time to dispatch the first before he is overwhelmed.

Fenris is used to fighting darkspawn with a healthy degree of caution; he knows nothing of Blight sickness, save that it is unpleasant and incurable. He has been careful of their Tainted blood since his first venture into the Deep Roads, mindful of Anders’ warnings despite his distaste for the mage. Now he is a Grey Warden, and he does not have to be mindful. He can fight the darkspawn as he fights any man. He will tear them apart, spray their blood across the canyon floor, and he will revel in the destruction.

He is a weapon. He is a Warden.

He is nothing else.

The wide arcs of his greatsword keep the smaller genlocks from closing in with their daggers as he clashes with the hurlock warriors. The first two die quickly, and Fenris wounds the third. The genlocks have doubled their efforts to maneuver around his deadly strikes, and the other group fans out to surround him.

Amell's return is announced by a patch of ice that disables the enemies closing in on Fenris’ flank. Their feet slip out from under them, and Fenris focuses on the darkspawn that still stand. The archers are at his back now, and their arrows finish off the barrier. An arrowhead sticks in Fenris’ weak shoulder, and it throws off his next swing. What would have been a killing blow swings wide and misses its target entirely.

Amell takes out the archers; Fenris knows this only because the arrows cease, and a moment later she drops to the ground beside him. She throws herself into the fray, striking with staff and frost. Steelwing lands beside her, gripping darkspawn with his talons and tossing them aside.

The skirmish is won when Fenris turns to tear out the heart of a rogue that managed to sneak behind him. He drops it on the sand, flicking drops of blood from his gloves. The rogue falls a second later. Fenris surveys the battlefield. Enemies lie black and frozen, dismembered and scattered across the ground. They are utterly destroyed, and his urge to kill has not abated.

Two of the thrown darkspawn appear to be moving. Amell grips her staff with both hands, pointing it at a genlock that is stumbling to its feet. A projectile launches from the tip of the weapon; Fenris watches an icicle strike the genlock between the eyes, returning it to the earth. Its ally soon suffers the same fate.

Amell twirls her staff around her wrist before securing it on her back. Her face is spattered with blood, and she smears it when she runs the back of her hand over her nose. Fenris is reminded of Hawke, and it makes his physical pain seem unbearable. He knows that he is not badly wounded, but he feels sore and raw all over, as though has been beaten.

“Not bad,” Amell remarks with a tilt of her head.

Her voice is an unwelcome intrusion, and Fenris ignores it. He searches the corpses for loot, though darkspawn rarely carry anything of value. He rips their armor apart, his teeth clenched, and throws it into a pile that clangs sharply each time he adds a piece. He drags the darkspawn into a heap by their ankles, retrieving their scattered corpses two at a time. When he reaches the archers, he is not surprised to find them peppered with icicles. He  _ is _ surprised, however, to see a genlock emissary in a similar state.

He furrows his brows and looks back to Amell, who sets the pyre aflame with the thrust of her hands. When did she kill the emissary? Fenris did not see it at all, and that does not sit right with him.

They dispose of the last of the bodies, leaving the armor. Amell fits the creatures’ weapons into a saddlebag, and Steelwing flicks his tail as she attaches it. She scolds him.

They mount and leave the darkspawn burning in the canyon, faces tucked in their elbows to dampen the stench.

***

Steelwing carries in a screaming varghest for his next meal. Fenris makes a clean cut through its neck and begins the process of stripping it. Amell watches with an expression that is in turns exasperated and amused. She says nothing to Steelwing, which is unusual, and it is even more unusual that she says something to Fenris instead.

“Is that a letter opener?” She gestures to the tool in his hand.

“It was.”

He has sharpened one edge and learned to handle it with precision. It is more delicate than his serrated hunting knife; he uses it to get a clean edge on the scales.

“The handle looks Antivan,” Amell goes on.

Fenris is not certain what has inspired Amell to hold conversation with him when they speak so little, but he grunts and says, “It belonged to an Antivan.”

“A dead one, I presume?” Fenris looks up to see Amell smiling, or at least attempting the gesture. She leans back on her hands, her legs stretched out in front of her. “Do you often kill people and assert ownership over their belongings?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look much like a highwayman.”

“I’m not,” he says, returning to his task. “I’m a Warden.”

She laughs; Fenris thinks there is something bitter in the sound. “Well, it’s good to see a little snark in there. Anything that still bites has got some fight left in it.”

It is disconcerting to have her approval. Fenris does not want it if this means she will speak to him now instead of leaving him to self-imposed silence.

***

After several more skirmishes with the darkspawn, their sleeping arrangements take a new pattern. Often they bunk in cramped quarters at various Warden outposts across Orlais, and only occasionally at night. Amell still stops to sleep on the ground whenever it pleases her, and Fenris finds himself growing accustomed to the schedule. He is able to sleep more deeply during those small bouts, and that deep sleep brings more nightmares.

Hawke features in most of them, and when he does not disappear before the fight, he invariably dies an array of gruesome deaths. Once the darkspawn hang him by the ankles above a fiery pit, and once they devour him piece-by-piece. Fenris is bound and forced to watch or else fighting through an army of darkspawn to get to him. He has more stamina in his dreams than he does while awake, but it is never enough.

Amell has them, too. She never says so, but there are times she whimpers in her sleep and jolts out of her bedroll like a woman possessed; Steelwing goes to her side, and she grooms him until he purrs. When they stay in the barracks overnight, their sleep is often interrupted by the sounds of other Wardens’ nightmares. Soon Fenris learns to fall back to sleep so quickly that he cannot remember, in the mornings, whether there was an intrusion at all.

They have left the deserts of western Orlais behind, and they equip heavier armor as they move east toward the Frostbacks. Amell wears full brigandine and Fenris adds a shoulder guard and faulds. He refuses to wear the helm, disliking the hindrance to his visibility. The Warden armorer makes his disapproval known, and the two regard each other with mutual distaste.

As they grow closer to the future site of the Inquisition, Fenris finds that anger overpowers the despondence that followed him through the first weeks of mourning Hawke. He cannot determine the cause of this anger, in particular. He is not angry with Ellana, who for all her leadership ability could not have stopped Hawke from doing what he believed to be right. He is not angry with Hawke, who made the same decision he has always made: to protect others regardless of the cost to himself. He is not angry with Amell, who was not complicit in the Fade's decision to bring him to her.

There is no one to blame for his anger, this time, and so he directs the full force of it at the darkspawn. The battles are bloodier than any he's fought since the year following his escape from Danarius, when he discovered there were ways to kill cleanly. The gore only seems to bother Amell when requires further grooming for Steelwing. Her own kills are quick and cold, powerful bursts of ice that freeze armor and pierce skin.

Just now they fly into Emprise du Lion on a cold wind, outpacing a blizzard. They seek a Warden outpost, too small for an aerie or even a roost. Amell knows of a nearby cave that will shelter all three of them, provided it is not already occupied. The darkspawn have not attacked Orlais with force, but there are enough of them to occupy the remaining Wardens. Fenris and Amell have killed many of them, though more often they deliver supplies and travel at Amell’s leisure.

When they reach the hillock that marks the cave, Fenris dismounts with a roll out of habit. Amell executes a showy flip, blue eyes wild above her pink cheeks. She expels air through her chapped lips as she shivers.

“We'll scope it out,” she says to Steelwing, unhooking her staff. “Stay here, love.”

Steelwing squawks. Amell rolls her eyes and repeats the command, motioning for Fenris to follow. He hopes there are darkspawn in the cave; they have been traveling for days, and he itches with the desire to kill.

There is little warmth to be found in the carved hollow. Shelter from the wind is a relief, but now cold stone surrounds them on all sides. Amell raises a hand in the air; flames leaps between her fingers, and long shadows stretch across the stone. Fenris holds his weapon ready. Amell’s other hand is stretched forward as she leads, ready to freeze anything in their path.

They cover ground quickly. The cave is large but not deep, and it is home to no creature. All they find is a cache near the back of the cave, a collection of dry branches and a chest with a Warden seal. Fenris huffs, his breath visible in the freezing air. Amell turns to him, and the fire illuminates the sympathy on her face. Again it strikes Fenris that the expression is unattractive on her, as if her features cannot quite accommodate it.

Fenris grunts and returns to the cave’s mouth. He has only spoken to Steelwing a handful of times, with mixed results. “There’s nothing inside,” he says to the griffon, gesturing to the cave. “Come on.”

Steelwing tilts his head and caws. After a moment, he shuffles in the indicated direction. Fenris goes ahead of him, coaxing him inside with low words. Steelwing pulls his wings in to fit through the mouth, shuffling and squawking until the cave opens up. When it does, he closes his eyes and nestles in, saddle and all.

Amell watches them with her hands on her hips, one eyebrow raised. “He’s really taken to you.” She shakes her head. “He doesn’t take to anyone.”

“He took to you.”

She shrugs. “We’re kindred spirits, he and I.”

Fenris removes camp supplies from the saddlebags, setting them up around Amell’s fire. He lays out the bedroll--there is only one now, large enough for the both of them. It is a necessity in the cold. Fenris finds it unsettling, this sort of physical closeness with no intent other than comfort. And he does find comfort in the shared heat, the steady pace of Amell’s breath as she sleeps. It makes him think of Hawke, and there are times he wakes and pulls her in his arms only to remember that she is not Hawke. She remains unperturbed by these instances, shrugging him off and returning to sleep without ceremony. They do not speak of it, but then, there are many things they do not speak of.

They eat their rations in silence. After the meal, they set to removing their armor. Fenris goes first, standing to loosen the buckles on Amell’s brigandine. She starts on his clasps, but her hands still beneath his shoulder guard. He gives her a questioning look, and her hands fall.

“Thank you,” she says. “I just thought I ought to…” She lifts her hands again, working at the clasp. “You’re not what I expected. I don’t know what I expected from an elf that fell out of the Fade and promptly began to slaughter everything in sight, but it wasn’t you.”

“You’re thanking me for exceeding your expectations?” That does not sit right with him; he has never liked the game of approval, finding it too similar to his days in Tevinter.

“I’m thanking you for not killing me.” Amell nearly smiles as she undoes the other clasps, nimble fingers working more slowly than usual. “I suspect that’s what Baptiste had in mind, sending you off with me. It was a nice, clean way to get rid of two problems at once. Troublesome mage, murderous Fade spirit--send them off on the most ornery griffon we’ve got and hope they all kill each other so we don’t have to deal with it.” She snorts. “That’s Warden politics for you.”

Fenris has gleaned that Amell isn’t well-liked, but he’s never inquired further. He wonders if he shouldn’t. It may come in useful, in the future, to know how to maneuver through these Warden politics. But planning for the future is not something he does anymore, so he remains silent.

“I’m pleased it didn’t end that way,” Amell goes on. “Not that my reputation can get much worse at this point, but if word got around that I killed my own rider, I’d never get another one.”

“You would not be able to kill me.”

“Perhaps not,” says Amell with a shrug. Finished with his armor, she begins to remove her own. “But then again, I am up one.”

“You had numbers.”

She grins as she tosses her brigandine aside. “Are you suggesting a sparring match, Fenris?”

Fenris glances around the cave. “There is not enough room to draw our weapons,” he decides.

“Who needs weapons?”

He narrows his eyes. Amell does not remain at a distance during their skirmishes--as most mages tend to, in his experience--but instead makes use of her staff as a melee weapon. He has seen her favor rolls and flips in her training exercises. He suspects she may present something of a challenge, for a minute or two.

“No magic,” he says.

“You either.”

“I do not  _ have _ magic.”

“No, you just pop out of the Fade and glow and rip people’s hearts out with your bare hands. Nothing magical about it.”

Fenris discards his armor with a clang that wakes Steelwing. The griffon ruffles his feathers and peers at them, reading their tension.

“It’s alright, love,” Amell calls, keeping her eyes on Fenris. “We’re going to spar. Stay there. Have a kip.”

They both rest on the balls of their feet, ready to spring to action. The clunky boots and padded gambeson will slow Fenris down, but they are necessary. He makes adjustments for balance and shoulder movement, shifting his stance to accommodate the changes. Amell tilts her head, eying the changes and making a few of her own.

Fenris inhales deeply; Amell tenses. He watches her as he lets out the breath, noting the way she shifts her weight onto her right leg. He curls his fingers into fists.

She strikes with a flurry of movement, and the battle is begun. Fenris starts on the defensive, dodging and blocking her quick jabs. He has sparred with the likes of Isabela--the pirate’s speed was impressive, but she could only outmatch him by playing dirty. Amell does not do this. Fenris lets her chase him around the open space in the cave, and she does not once go for his groin or the back of his knee.

Amell does not stop attacking despite her lack of success. A cleverer combatant might try something unexpected, and a prouder one might refuse to fight altogether. But Amell continues as she is, the only change her flushed cheeks and the pace of her breathing. She is tiring, but her moves are precise, as though they are well-practiced.

Fenris finds her combat style predictable after several minutes of study, and he dispatches her with a single strike. She falls to the cave floor on her knees, panting.

“That’s settled, then,” she grunts. Fenris offers her a hand, helping her to her feet. She looks up at him with a grimace. “Did that do anything for the bloodthirst?”

He narrows his eyes at her. She smirks--beaten, and yet she has won. He did not have the upper hand, after all. She set the pieces, and he played her game.

“Anyone could see it, Fenris. The way you fight…” She shakes her head, not finishing the thought.

“Have you something to say?” he snaps.

She straightens slowly. “I don’t give a damn what you do to the enemy as long as it’s dead. You want to take out whatever you’re feeling on the darkspawn? I won’t interfere with your therapy. But if you’re itching for a fight while we’re stuck in close quarters without an enemy in sight? I don’t see any way that ends well.” She points a finger at him, stopping just short of jabbing him in the chest. “Whatever’s in you, it needs out. If this helps, then this is what we do. So does it?”

He sets his jaw. He does not care for her meddling, but pride does not blind him. He considers the point, running through checks of body and mind. His fingers are not stiffly clenched, and his thoughts do not converge on the single purpose of destruction. Her distraction has been effective.

“It does.”

She nods once, and that is the end of it.

They greedily empty their water skins and fill them up with fresh snow. The blizzard has come in full force, and Amell remarks that it will likely keep them in for several days. The outpost is not far, but Fenris knows that it is not wise to attempt to cover even a short distance. It was a lesson harshly learned. He remembers the threat of frostbite on Hawke’s fingers, his skin red and blistered with cold--and he halts the thought, forces himself into the present.

They remain in the cave for three days, perhaps more. It is a challenge to mark the passage of time without the sun. Fenris sits in the same position until he feels as though he hasn’t moved for hours, but he is never certain how many have passed. Their usual schedule has little concern for time, and Fenris hasn’t kept it since stepping through the rift. The days and nights pass him by, and he does not stop to ask why or how or when.

Steelwing does not take well to their situation either. He caws and flicks his tail, and Amell becomes short with him. Once they get into an argument, as much as a human and griffon can argue, and spend several hours on opposite sides of the cave until they reconcile.

Fenris continues to spar with Amell. She is better at dodging his blows than landing her own, and often he finds himself chasing her instead. She seems to enjoy this more, showing off her acrobatics as much as possible in the small area available. Fenris finds it more challenging than the reverse and further believes it to be a far more likely scenario.

Once the storm has passed, they emerge from the cave. Steelwing takes off without them, and Amell snorts as she watches him disappear. “I suspect we’ll be walking for awhile,” she says.

They strap on snowshoes and begin the trek to the Warden outpost. Fenris scans the sky every so often, and Amell smirks when she catches him at it. She tells him not to get his hopes up.

***

When they arrive at the outpost, noses running and ears frozen beneath their cowls, there is no one to greet them. Amell twists her mouth and pounds twice on the heavy doors. She turns to Fenris as they wait.

“I’ve never come in this way,” she says, “but I’m sure there are meant to be guards.” She sighs, stepping back to peer up at the top of the tower. “We don’t want to come in swinging if the Wardens are still here, but be ready to draw if something’s amiss.”

There are footsteps on the stone, and the doors creak open. There are four Wardens in fighting formation on the other side of it. Amell raises an eyebrow at them.

“Lieutenant!” The foremost Warden salutes Amell, who returns the gesture. She passes her eyes over Fenris, then disregards him. She begins to speak in Orlesian, and Amell stops her with a hand.

“I’m not one of yours,” she says. “The name’s Amell. You may know me better by my griffon. He took off the top of your tower there about a year back.”

The Warden’s expression darkens, then snaps back toward neutrality. “I am Lieutenant Sabine. I have recently taken command of this outpost. What is your business here?”

“I’ve come to make a delivery.” Amell smiles thinly. “Steelwing had other plans. He’ll be on in a day or two with the supplies. Until then, we’d appreciate a bed.”

“And who is this?” Sabine looks Fenris over again. “Where is Gerard?”

“Dead. This is Fenris.”

Sabine’s face twitches with anger; she regards Amell with a steely glare. “He is not Orlesian.”

“He’s Tevinter, and I won’t hear a damn word about it.” She rolls her shoulders, though the effect is lessened as she sniffles. “Look, if you don’t want your supplies, I’ll take them to someone who knows the meaning of tolerance if not hospitality. Religion and politics have no place in Warden ranks, particularly not when there’s a Blight on.”

“I will not be patronized by a pair of heathens,” Sabine hisses. “You will not pass under this roof unless you show deference to the Maker of all things.”

“I’ll sing the bloody Chant if you like. They’re nice words.” She turns to Fenris and asks, “What do you think? Would you be willing to cater to a few sycophants for a roof over our heads?”

“I accept the Maker,” says Fenris.

Sabine regard him through narrowed eyes. “Then you do better than your countrymen.”

“Agreed.”

“That’s settled, then,” says Amell, clapping her hands once. “Shall I kneel here, or have you got a chapel?”

The commanding Warden exhales sharply through her nose, then orders one of her men to show them to the barracks.

***

The outpost is a small one, even by Warden standards, and every soldier there eyes Fenris with disdain. He has surmised that they take issue with Tevinter and that they are stoutly religious, but he does not fully understand until he asks Amell.

She’s surprised by the question, but she answers all the same. “The Exalted March on Tevinter has only just ended. The defeat is still fresh for Orlais. They may have carried on despite their losses if it weren’t for the Blight.” She shakes her head. “They’re a bunch of zealots.”

“And you do not care for the Maker?”

Fenris is used to anti-religious sentiments from mages, particularly with Anders and even Hawke. But Amell surprises him by saying, “Of course I do. I just don’t think the Chantry’s got it right, calling Exalted Marches whenever someone dares to offend them.”

He does not ask more, but he contemplates the answer. It is something to do in the dreary tower where he is hated for the sake of a country he no longer claims. Tevinter holds nothing for him but pain, and there is part of him that agrees with the March if it stops the blood magic of the cruel and proud magisters. But he has seen Thedas four hundred years from now, and he knows it does not.

Fenris is still contemplating when Sabine enters the barracks. He and Amell have slept in the same bed--there is little reason not to, in the cold--and both of them sit on it now. They tense for their weapons when the door creaks open, then share a look. Amell stands from the bed, and Fenris remains seated.

“There is a message for you,” says Sabine, offering a letter in her outstretched hand.

Amell frowns as she crosses the room. “How did it get here? Horses couldn’t make it through this much snow.”

“It arrived by griffon two weeks ago.”

“Why here?” Amell murmurs. Sabine does not respond, exiting the room the moment the letter has left her hands. Amell looks up at Fenris. “This is the First Warden’s seal.”

Fenris says nothing, and Amell tears the letter open. She walks back to the bed as she reads, perching on the edge of the mattress. The line between her brows deepens as she scans the words.

“We’re being deployed to the Hossberg,” she says at last. “They’ve lost too many riders to the darkspawn. We’ll be carrying supplies and messages until the siege breaks.”

Fenris has heard very little of the Anderfels, but he understands that it is warm. It will be a relief to get out of the cold. He has one question, however, and he debates asking it.

“Just like that?” he says to Amell, who is already packing their things.

“Well, that’s war for you.” She sighs as she buckles her pack. “The Anderfels aren’t terrible, but they’re going to be crowded. We’ll be put on a schedule, and we’ll actually have to report to people.”

She doesn’t sound pleased with the idea, but Fenris is skeptical of her acquiescence. He has only seen Amell do what suits her, regardless of the opinion or convenience of anyone else. There are times he forgets they are Wardens at all, in between the nightmares.

“Why do you do this?” She glances at him in question, and he expounds. “You don’t seem the type to follow orders.”

“Well,” she says, “since Steelwing belongs to the Wardens, I do occasionally have to do what they say.”

She offers nothing more, and Fenris drops the subject. He reminds himself that nothing matters-- _ Hawke is gone _ \--and prepares for the long journey. There will be plenty to kill in the Anderfels.


	3. Kindred Spirits

In the year since Fenris stepped through the Fade, he has traveled more and fought less than he ever has in his life. It sets his teeth on edge, makes him tense for action. It is abated by training with the other Wardens, though there are too many drills and rules for him to truly let his aggression loose. It builds up inside of him, and then, all at once, it disappears.

It does so the day half a platoon of Wardens are slaughtered in a surprise attack. It’s only luck that Amell sees the struggle from Steelwing’s back and drops in to help. When Fenris is through with the darkspawn, they lay in pieces scattered across the dry earth. As he takes in the carnage, he remembers the sound of Danarius’ voice,  _ Good work, little wolf _ .

He is more than what Danarius made him. He knows this--Hawke showed him in a hundred ways--but he has forgotten. There are times he still forgets that he is more than a weapon, that he has a purpose other than killing. His last purpose died with Hawke, but a new one is reborn that day.

Fenris does not have a name for it yet. He does not know what he is meant to do, what would be right or wrong, what the purpose of living is. But it is not to cause death. It is something else, and he will find it, because he cannot bear the thought of having nothing to live for.

He becomes a different man, and Amell says nothing of it, but she does speak to him more often. There are even times they speak to each other, discussing religion and war, philosophy and morality. They know little of each other’s pasts, but they become experts on the present. They learn to predict each other, and the skill in particularly useful in battle.

Battles are rare, despite the thick swarms of darkspawn that congregate around major cities in the Anderfels. Fenris and Amell deliver supplies and scouting reports, a position vital enough to the war effort that the brass does not risk them in skirmishes with the darkspawn. They provide support to the body of the Warden army, and they are thanked so often that Amell soon becomes irritable at any sign of gratitude.

Fenris, at least, finds that the Wardens he meets in the Anderfels do not seem to care for his country of origin or his race. They do not make friends of each other, but there is a unity between himself and the other Wardens, a shared duty. He is not certain what to do with the thought that he may belong here, and so he denies it, resists it.

Steelwing is the only one who seems to enjoy himself, partial to long flights rather than battles. They meet other griffon riders who teach Amell several maneuvers, which she modifies to be riskier and more flamboyant. Fenris’ stomach does pre-emptive flips whenever she adjusts her grip on the reins. It has taken him months to grow accustomed to straightforward flying, and he does not appreciate the constant hits to his progress.

It is weeks after the siege on Hossberg is broken that they are at last cleared to leave. Fenris cares little for the celebrations that occur, waiting them out in the darkness of the barracks. He hears the bunk above his creak. Amell sleeps there--or perhaps it is more accurate to say that she does not.

She drops to the floor in a crouch. Fenris can see the wide grin that stretches across her face. She closes her lips and brings a finger to them, jerking her head toward the door. She slings her pack over her shoulder, motioning for him to do the same. He remains in bed for several seconds before sighing audibly. Amell hushes him.

He follows her out of the barracks and up to the aerie. He does not ask where or why; these are useless questions. He should not have expected Amell to do something as sensible as wait until the following morning when she could instead sneak away in the dead of night. He yawns on the way all the same. His sleep has been somewhat regular for last several months, and he suspects that is about to change.

Steelwing caws when Amell approaches, and she makes a wild hand gesture that does nothing. She breaks out into a run, and Fenris follows. Though he thinks Amell has rather more enthusiasm than necessary, he too is pleased to be finished with their duties.

They fit the saddle and climb in. “Hold tight,” says Amell, and Fenris responds with a grimace.

***

It is a relief to be free of the schedules they’ve kept, to roam the skies at their leisure. They do not stop until dawn. Amell brings Steelwing to land at the top of a small mountain range, and Fenris isn’t sure what her plans are until she folds her knees and pats the earth beside her. They sit and watch the sunrise in silence.

They head south, although where Amell intends to go is anyone’s guess. Fenris is content to enjoy his freedoms for the moment. He has gained an affection for Steelwing, and it seems the griffon has taken a strange liking to him as well. They both enjoy feeding time--Steelwing for the food and perhaps the thrill of getting away with disobedience, and Fenris for the methodical stripping of tough skin and claws. Steelwing seems to favor creatures that are difficult to eat, and Amell shakes her head in disapproval but says nothing. Fenris pretends not to see the way the corner of her mouth lifts in some echo of a smile.

They are near the Nevarran border when they see flames from the sky. Amell pulls Steelwing into a dive before Fenris can brace, and he curses as he holds onto the saddle.

They close in on a small village. Several houses burn hot in the early morning light, and Fenris drops at the edge of them. Amell remains on Steelwing’s back, his great wings fanning the flames until ice pours from the tip of her staff.

Fenris wraps his cowl--worn now to protect from dust and sun rather than cold--and makes a path through the scattered villagers. They upend buckets of water onto the burning buildings, mouths tucked into their elbows. Fenris sees a group of them hacking at a door, their strength dwindling as smoke fills their lungs. It pours from the house, hissing as it searches for a path through the ice.

He shouts out a warning as he heads for the remains of the door. The villagers have managed to cut away parts of it, splintered wood flying from their hatchets and farming implements. They back away as Fenris charges, cutting through the door with one great swing of his sword. He is careful to leave the doorframe intact--already the roof threatens to cave in, and he will have seconds to locate survivors and pull them to safety.

Amell’s ice has cooled the flames, but the smoke is trapped inside. Fenris feels a different fire in his lungs as he shoulders the wreckage aside. The doorway is blocked, and Fenris clambers over the fallen beams, not willing to cut through them lest he hasten the building’s collapse. The smoke is too thick to see more than his hand in front of him, and he keeps it outstretched, feeling for the walls. The ice begins to drip; the heat is a heavy pelt around him, thick and oppressive.

He is nearly through the house, with no signs of its occupants, when he stumbles over an unseen obstruction. He regains his footing and kneels down to inspect it. A foot sprawls across the floor, and he follows it to a woman’s prone body. There is a boy in her arms, still conscious and whimpering, his face buried in her stomach.

Fenris finds the nearest window and cuts an opening through to the floor. When he moves the woman, the boy startles, coughing as his wide, watery eyes take Fenris in.

“I’ll get your mother out,” says Fenris, kneeling down to haul the woman over his shoulder. He steadies her with one hand while the other grips his sword. “Follow me.”

The child does not move except to reach his arm toward his mother, then fall to the floor on his elbows.

The building creaks around them as its supports snap. Fenris drops his sword and tucks the child under his arm, sprinting for the opening. He lays the survivors a safe distance away. The building has not yet come down; there is just enough time for Fenris to weigh the danger of retrieving his weapon before the roof falls.

Fenris shouts until the villagers take notice. The moment they see the woman and child, he darts to the next building. It falls the moment he pushes through the door, and a stray beam clips him in the shoulder as he dives away. He moves to the next. Amell’s ice holds the structure despite the tilt of the roof, and Fenris takes a hatchet from a flagging villager to cut through it. He slips on ice as he searches the house, finding one man that he’s able to shove through a window and another that is covered in too many burns to be alive. The stench of burning flesh scalds his nostrils.

Amell drops at his side as he lays the next survivor in the dirt. She knocks back a dose of lyrium and nods to him before pointing her staff at a structure that is near collapse. Her ice douses the flaming doorway, and she breaks for the next building as he pushes inside.

They save as many as they can. It is the most they can say, when it is done.

Villagers congregate in the town square, healing survivors and sharing food and water. Fenris supports Amell as they make their way to the outskirts of the busy crowd. She leans on him, her arm slung around his shoulder. Her breath is raspy, and her head droops as though suffering under a heavy load.

He lowers her to the ground, kneeling himself. He retches twices, and Amell’s hand steadies him as she tips water down his throat. They are offered rations, and they accept, guzzling the extra water and chewing on the tough bread. It does not satisfy a Warden’s hunger, but it lessens the sour ache in Fenris belly. He is past due for another meal.

Coughing and retching fill the air, the stench thick and sour. A breeze carries the smoke until all that’s left is a few white tendrils, barely visible against the horizon. Fenris watches Steelwing sweep in circles around the village. Amell looks up too, then touches his shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” she says. “You rest.”

She stumbles as she stands, and Fenris raises an eyebrow. “You rest.” He gets to his feet and nods down at the dirt. “Sit. I’ll look after Steelwing.”

She sighs and says, “Alright.” Fenris lowers her back down, and she looks up with a tired expression, her features slumped and eyes half-closed. “Bring our rations and water. There’s a river nearby where we can fill up before we leave, and we’ll hunt until we reach Nevarra City.”

Fenris does not show his surprise, though he feels it all the same. He heads for the town’s edge, where farmland stretches between large, low buildings. He whistles for Steelwing, who lands in a field of wheat, crushing crops beneath his talons. His tail flicks in agitation. Fenris strokes his feathers, murmuring absentmindedly.

He takes several moments to calm Steelwing before daring to rummage through the saddlebags. He fills his arms with their personal supplies; Steelwing takes off at the next command, returning to his vigil. Villagers gaze in wonder at the large beast that brought their rescuers. They eye him as well, taking in his Warden tabard and the griffon emblazoned in silver across his chest.

Fenris scours the square to find the person in charge, who turns out to be a woman with a voice that carries. Her commands are swiftly obeyed, villagers running to and fro under her direction. Her grey brow puckers as Fenris approaches.

“Please do not tell me those are your supplies,” she says, hands fisted on her hips.

Fenris lifts the bundle. “The Grey Wardens send their regards.”

“The Grey Wardens have a Blight to contend with.” The woman waves her hand. “I would not hinder your efforts. My mother, may she walk with the Maker, would never forgive me for allowing a Warden to go hungry.”

“We are more than capable of fending for ourselves.”

“And we are not?” The woman shakes her head as she says, “We may be but simple villagers, Warden, but we have weathered worse than this.”

Hawke would know what to say; Fenris does not. He shifts his weight under the load, searching for the words. “I meant no offense. Please, take them.”

The woman’s expression softens. Her hands fall from her hips, and she sighs. “And just what would Mother say of my pride?” she asks. She turns to a young boy at her side. “Emilio, take these to your father. Make two trips if you need to.”

“I only need one,” says Emilio, jutting his chin out.

Fenris shifts the supplies into the boy’s arms. He struggles under the load but manages to walk with slow, careful steps. The woman watches him go with an eyebrow raised, then turns back to Fenris.

“Thank you, Warden,” she says with a slight bow of her head. “Yours is a great burden, yet you have found it in your heart to aid us. For that, we are grateful.”

“Your gratitude is unnecessary but appreciated.”

She gives him a weary smile. Another villager quickly grabs her attention, and Fenris departs feeling vaguely unsettled. He does wonder why Amell stopped to help the villagers at all; selflessness is not in her nature, or his.

He is still pondering this when he spots Emilio crouching on the path in front of him. He loads tips precariously as he attempts to retrieve a fallen package. Fenris stoops to pick it up, then looks at it in his hands, uncertain what to do with it. The boy will surely drop it again.

“Put it on the top,” says Emilio. His dark cheeks are tinged red, and he pants with effort.

Fenris raises an eyebrow but does so. He watches Emilio take several more steps before another packages slides to the ground. Fenris again retrieves it, though he does not place it in the boy’s arms. “Lead the way,” he says. Emilio’s face pinches before he nods and starts off again.

Fenris has three packages by the time they reach their destination. They drop the load with a pile of other supplies watched over by a portly man.

Emilio looks up at Fenris, still breathing heavily as he says, “I saw you rescue Gabriel. You…” The boy squirms, glancing at the dirt. “You won’t let the templars take him, will you? He didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“Gabriel is mage?” asks Fenris.

The boy nods. His eyes are wide, brows pulled in worry.

“The templars will take Gabriel to the Circle, where he will learn to control his magic so that he does not hurt himself or anyone else.”

“But it was an accident!” Emilio insists, his lip turning up in a pout.

“The Circle is not a punishment.” He crouches down to the boys’ level. “Your friend is not at fault. But his magic can be dangerous if he does not know how to use it properly.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Emilio’s father approaches them, regarding Fenris shrewdly. “What are you telling my boy, Warden?”

“He is concerned about Gabriel,” says Fenris, rising to his feet.

The man’s expression crumples. “We all are,” he says. “We’ve sent a messenger to the nearest chantry.”

Fenris nods once. He turns to leave, then hesitates. “My partner is a mage,” he says to Emilio. “Her magic saved your friend. It can be used for good.”

He’s not certain the words are for Emilio, though they seem to comfort the boy nonetheless. Fenris leaves him in the care of his father, heading back toward Amell with a frown in place.

He does not know what compels him to inform her. When he returns, he sits beside her and says, “The fire was started by a mage. A young boy named Gabriel.”

Amell’s head shoots up, her eyes alert despite her haggardness. “Have the templars been called?”

“They have.”

“I want to see him first.” She rises shakily, her hand falling on Fenris’ shoulder for support.

“Can you walk?”

“Well enough.” Fenris is doubtful, but when she asks, “Where is he?” he points her toward the woman in charge.

She returns some time later, saying nothing more of the affair. She holds out a hand to help him up, and together they unearth his sword from the wreckage. With that done, they head towards the clearing to call Steelwing. Fenris eyes Amell as they walk, and after some time he asks the question that is on his mind.

“How is he?”

Amell’s brow furrows before she asks, “The boy?” Fenris nods. “As well as he can be, I suppose. Maker knows he’s got a tough road ahead of him. It’s hard enough being alone at that age, but this sort of guilt doesn’t just…” She stops, then shakes her head. She stumbles again, and Fenris supports her with an arm around her waist. She grunts in thanks.

“What compelled you to stop?” Her brow furrows tighter, and Fenris raises one of his. “You’re not the heroic type.”

“That’s one way to put it.” She smiles wryly, then shrugs. “It was on the way, and we’re in no hurry.”

“You gave them our supplies.”

“We have plenty. Don’t you worry about going hungry, Fenris. I’m sure Steelwing will be thrilled to bring you twice the number of kills.”

Fenris frowns, struggling to find the right words. “We could have passed it by,” he says, “or left once the fires were doused.”

“I’ll be sure to do that next time.”

“I was not suggesting it.” He takes another moment before saying, “I am simply curious as to why you acted the way you did.”

She grunts in irritation. “I don’t know what you’re looking for. It was just something to do.”

“It was dangerous. The lack of supplies inconveniences us, and you had no obligation to the boy.”

“What do you want from me?” Amell complains, sighing as she rests her head on his shoulder.

Fenris does not reply.  _ She is not Hawke, _ he reminds himself. Despite the stark differences between the two, there are times he still forgets.

***

Amell becomes distant as they move east. Fenris recognizes the aggravation in the set of her jaw, the way her eyes flash with every casual touch. She is angry with him, and he believes he understands why.

Fenris remembers himself before Hawke. It was not someone he liked, even then. He hated not knowing what he was, how much of him still belonged to Danarius. His identity was a question that plagued him each day, and he could not find the answer, no matter how many of Danarius’ men he killed. Hawke changed all of that. His strong sense of self bolstered Fenris, made him feel as though his life was worth living. Loving Hawke made him a better man, irrefutably.

But Hawke assumed that his goodness was ordinary, and whenever he found that it was not, he became disappointed and withdrew. There were times Fenris was the cause of this, with his practicality and ruthlessness. Hawke helped him heal, helped him find himself amidst the cruelty and suffering the world inflicted upon him. But Fenris never found the self Hawke was looking for, the good and honorable man that Hawke always believed him to be. What Fenris found was a self he could live with, even if it was far from a paragon.

Being with Hawke made him desire to be more, to do everything he could to measure up to Hawke’s generous opinion of him. But there were times he resented it, times he wished he could simply continue the way he was and follow his inclinations without risking Hawke’s disapproval. There were times he did not  _ want _ to be better.

He wonders now if he has placed a similar pressure onto Amell, if he is expecting her to be more than she is. He is in no place to judge--Fenris may not be the monster he thought he was, but he is no hero. He has no right to expect anything from Amell, who has always taken him as he is.

Fenris does not apologize often, though not for the sake of pride. He often finds himself at a loss for words, and he stumbles more often than not. Still, he owes it to Amell to try.

He finds the time as Amell lies atop a grassy hillock, watching the sunset. She rises when he approaches, ignoring the hand he offers to help her up. She starts down the hill, and Fenris stops her with a hand on her shoulder. She turns to strike at his gut, and he catches her fist.

“Amell,” he says firmly. “I have something to say.”

“I’ve heard enough of what you have to say.” She pulls her hand away, and Fenris releases it.

“You do not have to prove yourself to me,” he goes on. He urges sincerity into his words, though he is not certain it is successful. “I accept your leadership--and your companionship, if you offer it.”

Her lips thin as she presses them together. At last she says, “Well, that’s a bit presumptuous.”

Fenris regards her flatly, and she half-smiles. They sit on the hill and watch the sunlight fade.

***

“Do we have a destination in mind?” asks Fenris the day they leave Nevarra City.

Amell sits on her ankles, running a whetstone along the blade of her hunting knife. Fenris watches, correcting her technique every so often. She was bemused by the idea of learning to skin animals and could only be convinced to do so when their rations ran out. Fenris has been teaching her, and it is a slow process, but he maintains it is useful skill.

“We’re dropping in on my family,” Amell murmurs, focused on her task.

Fenris starts. “In Kirkwall?”

Amell looks up. The sound of her blade against the stone halts, and she regards Fenris with a frown. “Should I even bother asking how you know that?”

Fenris does not answer the question. The thought of returning to Kirkwall has taken over his mind. The entirety of him revolts at the idea, knowing it is the place he encountered pains and trials, and also the place he met Hawke. It is the place he loved Hawke, in between the bloody battles and his own insecurity.

“I didn’t think so.” Amell sighs. The sound of grinding resumes. “Will you at least tell me how you know my family? Perhaps you’ve met one of my brothers?”

“I have known five members of your family,” says Fenris. “You are familiar with none of them.”

She stops again. “You…” She shakes her head, setting the stone and blade down. “Are we actually going to talk about this?”

“Perhaps we ought to.”

Fenris has kept his secrets long enough. Amell does not need to know everything--she will not believe half of it--but she should know at least this.

He leans forward to hug his knees, resting his chin on folded forearms. Amell readjusts until she sits cross-legged beside him. She is close enough that her hair brushes his arm when the wind carries it.

He stares into the trees as he talks, but he does not see them. He sees the library in the Amell estate, where Hawke patiently taught him to read. He feels the warmth from the fire, the comfort of Hawke’s arm at his back.

“I know some of your descendants,” he starts, his voice low and quiet. “I was looking for one when I came through the Fade.”

“Hawke?” she asks.

“Yes. His mother was Leandra Amell.”

Amell hums. “Can’t say I’ve heard of her.”

“You wouldn’t have.” Fenris remembers her face, her lips pursed in disapproval of her son’s choice in companion. “She will be born nearly four hundred years from now. She will marry a mage called Malcolm Hawke. She will have three children. She will die in Kirkwall at the hands of a blood mage.”

“Four hundred years?” Amell whispers. “Then she’s my… great granddaughter several times over. Or Abram’s, or Nolan’s.” Her voice speeds up, even as she stutters. “Is she…? Is Hawke…? He was your lover?”

“He was.” Hawke is the past, now. The finality of it settles like a heavy weight on his chest. “He was a good man. He became the Champion of Kirkwall. He saved many lives.”

“What…” He can feel Amell’s breath on his arm, deep and shaky. “What happened to him?”

Fenris swallows thickly and says, “He went into the Fade. And I went after him.”

“So… he could still be in there somewhere?”

“He’s  _ gone _ .”

“Alright.” Amell’s tone is gentle, careful, as if she understands the risk. “So you went after him. But you ended up here?”

“Yes.”

He hears her shift, watches her run a hand through her hair from the corner of his eye. “Because of me? Because the magic was… well, unstable. The Fade’s got a mind of its own; you never can tell what it’ll think up.” He offers nothing on that front, and she thinks for a moment before she says, “So if you’re from Thedas in another four ages… do you know what happens to us? The Blight?”

“I am no student of history.” He turns to look at her, sees the desperation in her furrowed brow. “We win. We defeat the darkspawn.”

She lets out a shaky laugh and says, “Well, I’ll tell all the doomsdayers to find another hobby, then. Everyone says this is the last Blight, one way or another.”

“It is not. When the next Archdemon rises, it will be slain by a Warden mage called Amell.”

“Maker’s breath.”

She moves to run her hand through her hair again, and Fenris catches it. She startles, her eyes blinking rapidly. She lifts her gaze, and he returns it steadily. He caresses the back of her hand with her thumb, then lets it fall.

“I can’t believe this,” she says, shaking her head.

“You do not have to. It is true either way.”

“I suppose so.” Her mouth pulls up on one side. “Unless you  _ are _ a demon after all, and this is part of your very convoluted plan.”

“I am no demon.”

“It was a joke, Fenris.”

He lifts a brow. “Was it?”

She presses her lips together, and he eyes her knowingly. The tale sounds fantastical even to him. It is an impossible set of circumstances, and yet it has occurred. He has never been one to dwell on possibilities; it is already done, and all they can do now is live with the consequences.

Fenris tells her everything she wants to know about Thedas four hundred years in the future, and they stay in that little forest clearing until the sun sets and Steelwing complains over the lack of attention. Once he is tended to, they slide into a single bedroll. Fenris holds Amell as she falls into fitful sleep, breathing in the smell of pine and the threat of rain.

***

He sees Kirkwall in his dreams weeks before they arrive. They are half-memory, tainted with regret and the call of the Archdemon. There are times its screeching song is so quiet he forgets it, but it rings in his ears when he loses Hawke for the thousandth time. Every loss wounds him--but the pain has become commonplace.

They stop for Steelwing to feed, and Fenris can see the chantry spires in the distance. He remembers the way they looked scattered across the streets of Kirkwall, crushing the innocents Hawke could never have saved. Kirkwall was burning long before Anders fanned the flames, and there is part of Fenris that is grateful to him for convincing Hawke to give up on a city of the damned. Fenris is certain he would still be there otherwise, dousing flames half as quickly as they catch.

He can hear Amell’s breath at his back, and when he turns to face her, she is waiting for it. “You can join me, if you like,” she says. “You’ll be welcome at the estate. I’m sure you know your way around otherwise.”

Fenris thinks of the memories that press up against him, bringing him closer and closer to suffocation. He suspects they will win that battle; he has been fighting it for weeks already, and his strength flags. They will overwhelm him in Kirkwall, and he will be forced to give in. When that moment comes, he would not like to be alone.

“I will stand by your side, if there is a place for me.”

“It just so happens that there is.” She grins, a quick flash of teeth that is there and gone. “You fill it rather nicely.”

He does, he thinks. They complement each other well in battle, and in personal matters, they are like-minded. She has little in common with Hawke, but she is a worthy companion all the same. Whether it was fortune or fate that brought them together, the Wardens are certainly better for it.

Fenris thinks of this as they land, focusing on newer memories to delay the old. He thinks of it as he stalks the familiar path to Hightown, not realizing until they reach the estate that Amell is half a pace behind him. He narrows his eyes at her, and she responds with a shrug.

Fenris is subjected to several more of these tests. When Amell offers him the guest bedchamber, she does not show him the way. When they dine with her parents, she asks him to fetch another bottle of wine from the cellar. He is irritated enough by this behavior that he forgets, for a time, that this is the kitchen where Hawke attempted to cook Tevinter cuisine, and that is the room Hawke did not enter for two years after Leandra’s death.

When he retires for the night, he wonders if Amell is awake, if she sleeps on the same side of the bed as Hawke did. He wonders if she knows about the carving on the side of the mantelpiece, if she was the one who inscribed the initials.

The nights are awash with memory and sorrow, but the days are filled with distractions. Amell’s family is loud at every opportunity, so that Fenris can hear their conversations and laughter through the walls. Amell’s accent thickens when she raises her voice to talk over them; her words trip over each other as they come out in quick, short sentences. She interrupts and is interrupted, and somehow at the end of the day, everyone has managed to say what they wanted to. They gather by the fire in the library, reading or drinking wine, subdued until dawn comes again.

They ask him many questions, and there are times he does not answer. When he does not want to talk, they fill the silence; and when he does speak, they grow curiously quiet, as though his words have value.

Fenris has little experience to compare it to. Memories of his own family are tainted by Danarius’ meddling, and Hawke’s family matters were riddled with loss and resentment. There are arguments between the Amells, spirited debates that seem vicious until he recognizes the fondness in their rivalry. There is something that connects them all, and though Fenris’ notion of family is only an ideal that he has never found, he suspects this is the core of it. This is what abates loneliness in the darkest hours, the knowledge that one has these connections by virtue of birth alone.

He wonders, when the day ends and the sleepless night stretches before him, what difference it would make if he had these connections. He loved Hawke; he loves Hawke still. But he wonders if it is possible to love more than one person in more than one way. He thinks of his companions in Kirkwall, of the kinship they shared despite their differences. He does not know if that was love, or if it matters what it was. He had it, and he lost it.

Now there is a chance that he has found it again. The realization rumbles uncertainly in his stomach, and that night it is Amell who dies to the horrors in his dreams.

***

The Amell household seems to grow as the week carries on. Siblings and friends add to the noise, appearing and disappearing throughout the day. Fenris allows himself to be talked into a sparring match with Amell’s elder brother; once it has ended, there are no more volunteers.

That night Fenris finds himself seated in an armchair that has been pulled into the dining room along with several other mismatched seats. The meal is a crowded affair; Fenris can hardly follow the threads of conversation all around him, disconnected from it all. Amell pulls him in every so often, and eventually she comes to sit at his feet. She is joined by another Warden out of uniform, an elf who wets his fingers with saliva and sticks them in her ear.

She bats his hand away, shouting, “Oi! I haven’t missed that, I’ll tell you.” She rubs at her ear as she glances up toward Fenris, jerking her head toward her companion. “This is  Aodhán, by the way. His mother was our family’s servant, and now he’s a second-rate griffon rider. Don’t let him near your ears.”

Aodhán grins at him, showing a set of crooked teeth. “She’s the one you’ve got to worry about with that ice magic. She’ll freeze your bath if she’s cross with you.”

“Honestly, I was ten.” Amell rolls her eyes. “And you shouldn’t have even been in there in the first place, so I’ll not entertain any whinging about the consequences.”

“You nearly gave me frostbite in places that ought never to be frostbitten.”

They rapid-fire through several of these anecdotes, and Fenris feels a distinct sense of longing. He has never been the sort to reminisce unless it is to dwell on his mistakes. He wonders now whether this is due to a lack of good memories or a blindness to them.

Among the people he is introduced to, there is the Warden-Commander of Kirkwall. He salutes once he discovers her rank, and she waves him off with a grin.

“None of that,” she says. “This lot will start making fun of me again.”

“We do it because we love you, Sylvia,” says Amell’s eldest brother, Nolan. “You and your frantic hand-waving.”

“We are in the middle of a Blight, if you haven’t noticed.” She leans back in her chair, taking a sip of wine. “A little frantic hand-waving is called for. How else are my Wardens going to know which direction the darkspawn are in?”

“Follow the smell,” Fenris suggests.

The room erupts into laughter. The wine is flowing freely as they shout and gesture, sharing old memories and making new. Fenris drinks his fill, but it is different with company. He does not fall into the past; he soaks in the comradery, and it is not a burden.

***

On their last night in Kirkwall, Fenris steals through the estate. The stairs creak beneath his bare feet, and moonlight glints off a shield bearing the Amell crest. Snores can be heard from the first landing despite the closed doors. Fenris stalks past them until he reaches the second landing. He pauses in front of the door, then softly raps his knuckles against the wood.

Amell opens the door, blinking before him until her eyes widen. She opens the door, letting him in without a word. Only once she’s turned the lock does she whisper, “Has something happened?”

“No,” he says, and then, “Yes.” He shakes his head as he searches for the words. “I have made the mistake of inaction before. I will not do so again.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Tell me if I should stop.” He reaches for her, pulling her in by the waist. He feels her breath on his face, warm and shaky.

“Don’t you dare,” she says, bringing her lips to his. They are chapped and rough, but the kiss is tentative, breathy and slow. She breaks it, pulling back just enough to search his eyes. “I keep waiting for you to disappear,” she whispers. “Every morning I wake and think it’ll be the day I lose you.”

“Someday it will be, one way or another.”

She reaches up to thumb his bottom lip. “I can live with that.”

“You’ll have to.” He brushes her hair behind her ear and says, “We both will. No promise can be kept forever.”

“Is that what this is? A promise?”

“Yes.” He kisses her again. “I promise to stand by your side. That is all I can offer.”

“It’s enough,” she breathes.

They say nothing more. There is no certainty to be had, and so they must live without it.


	4. Fault Line

As the Blight carries on, the darkspawn converge on the Free Marches in what slowly but surely becomes a massive horde. Wardens gather to wage their war, and the Kirkwall aerie is full enough that Steelwing decides to perch on the top of the chantry and cannot be convinced to descend. It is Aodhán and his partner who sweep in on an unusual all-white griffon to force him off. He promptly lands in the courtyard and continues his spectacle.

Amidst accusations of a griffon gone mad, Fenris and Amell spend as much time away from Kirkwall as possible, only daring to fly within its walls when delivering their scouting reports. The griffon’s bad behavior has the best of consequences, granting the freedom they crave. It is war, and every day there are deaths by the hundreds, yet they remain detached. They do not carry the guilt of these deaths; the weight would slow them down, and it is their role to be quick.

Skirmishes with the darkspawn become a less frequent affair as they join together in packs too large to engage alone. The empty wilderness is filled in with hurlocks and shrieks, ogres and emissaries. From the sky, the three of them watch the open spaces become smaller and smaller with every passing month.

Much of their time is spent between Kirkwall and Wildervale, carting supplies and scouting along the way. The darkspawn push to the foothills of the Vimmark Mountains, though it thins their horde considerably. The Wardens take advantage, mounting an assault against their flank and retreating to Kirkwall before they draw the main horde’s attention.

On a return trip from Wildervale, Fenris and Amell discover a smaller group headed north through the Vimmarks. They weave between the peaks attempting to count them, but their range provides cover for the darkspawn while forcing Steelwing into an exposed position. Amell grunts in frustration as the misses another shot, and soon she pulls Steelwing to land near the mouth of a gorge.

“We’ll go on foot,” she says before dismounting with a roll. Fenris follows, commanding Steelwing to stay behind. Amell disregards both of them, apparently talking to herself as she leads through the mountains. “Knock me out of the sky, will you? Do me a favor and keep looking up.”

She stops talking as they hear the snarls of darkspawn ahead. She ushers Fenris into cover, then instructs him in a low voice.

It is a solid strategy. The terrain forces the darkspawn into a line, and catching them in a bottleneck proves devastating. They wipe out a significant portion of skirmishers, and as the bodies pile up, the remaining number have trouble getting through. Fenris hold the choke point, and Amell picks off the combatants that struggle to reach him. Amell grins when they stop coming, and Fenris feels invigorated.

They are far too pleased with themselves to realize they’ve been caught in an ambush.

A bolt tears through Fenris’ mail, sticking in the rocky crag behind him. Another cracks against Amell’s barrier, cast in the nick of time. She shouts, and they dive to the ground, taking insufficient cover around a jut of rock. Amell aims at the ridge, waiting for the attackers to appear. They do so simultaneously, and the first earns an icicle through his skull. The second shoots wide; the bolt whizzes past Fenris and instead hits the ambushers that flank them in the canyon. They are not darkspawn.

Amell ducks out of the way of the falling body, staring down at its gored skull with a frown. Fenris takes in the advancing enemies, then the wall of corpses behind them, and rushes forward with a shout. Amell keeps pressure on the ridge as Fenris slaughters the men on the ground. Their mismatched armor and clumsy swings are no match for him.

The archers are better off--there are more up ahead, and Amell cannot target them all. Several bolts hit Fenris, and Amell switches to shielding him. “There’s too many!” she shouts. “Get to the gorge!”

Fenris sprints, and Amell follows behind, both hands raised. Her shields flicker in and out as bolts and arrows rain from above, none of them finding flesh. They reach the gorge intact--and run past, unable to engage the enemies that block it while they are being peppered with projectiles.

They continue down the canyon a ways, and Fenris knows Amell is flagging when her barriers are less frequent. Once they’ve outpaced the archers, she reaches into her belt pouch and downs a lyrium potion, nearly choking on it as her breaths come heavy.

“How in the Void did they get up on that ridge?” she growls, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“They could’ve scaled it on the other side,” Fenris answers. “There is bound be a settlement near the gorge. Bandits will ambush travelers as they come through.”

Amell rolls her eyes. “You can’t rob darkspawn, for Andraste’s sake. They should’ve moved on by now.” She leans back against the ridge, sighing. “We have to get to Steelwing. The darkspawn will push through eventually.”

He takes a step back, eying the ridge. “If we can get up there, we can take out the archers.”

“They’ll see us coming. They know this place better than we do.” She looks around, jogging down the canyon. “If we get someplace Steelwing can land, he’ll be able to find us.”

“And if the bandits manage to subdue him?”

“They won’t manage it for long,” says Amell with a breathy laugh. She mutters a curse. “If we lose those supplies, Sylvia will have my head.”

Fenris heaves his sword over his shoulder, grunting as they pick up the pace. “The bandits are no challenge,” he says. “I will cut through them once I am close enough.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

The canyon opens up ahead of them, and Amell whistles sharply. Fenris frowns as he looks around. “Is this wide enough?”

“You don’t think so?” She tilts her head.

He goes farther in to inspect a half-crumbled outcrop. He brushes a hand over the rock; there are no loose pebbles. The rock is smoother than it should be, as though it has been cut into shape.

“Here,” Fenris calls, and Amell runs over. “We can get up this way. Steelwing will have more room take take off.”

Amell quirks her mouth before nodding. “I’ll go first,” she says. Fenris interlocks his fingers to boost her up. “Let’s see how many archers I can take out before they figure out where I am.”

She scales the rock, sliding onto the ledge on her belly. Her body tenses in a straight line, and Fenris hears the crackling sound that accompanies her ice magic. Screams follow it, and then the sound of several bodies thudding to the earth.

“Ice missiles at their feet,” says Amell cheerily as she slides back down.

Fenris repeats Steelwing’s call, and the griffon screeches in response. He surges upward a second later, and they climb to the top of the ridge. Steelwing glides toward them easily. Amell’s barrier snaps into place behind him as he lands, his claws scrabbling against the rock. They mount and take off as quickly as they’re able, and Fenris grabs hold of Amell as she tips sideways. He reaches for the reins, his arms holding her in place as they circle around the ridge.

Amell turns her head back to shout, “Missing a saddlebag!”

“Can you fly if I drop into the gorge?”

“I can,” she says, “but you’ll have no support!”

“I will not need it.”

Fenris pulls on the reins, and Steelwing circles around. Amell takes control of them when they draw close, and Fenris eyes the pocket of bandits with their spoils. He grits his teeth and prepares to drop.

The bandits have seconds of warning before he lands, and it is not enough. Their archers shoot for Steelwing, who evades them easily. By the time they realize he is impossible to hit, Fenris has finished cutting down the others. He dispatches them efficiently and retrieves the saddlebag. He reattaches it and climbs back on the saddle, taking hold of the reins.

Darkspawn pour into the gorge, but they are already gone.

***

They stop to recover on the top of a wide ridge, far away from darkspawn and bandits. They can see the horde in the foothills below; there are little more than tiny black shapes that cover the terrain, a threat in the distance.

Fenris inspects an abrasion on Amell’s forearm, pressing salve onto the tender skin. She patches his armor, though it will need a smith when they reach Kirkwall, and she leans against his side when through. She lays her head on his shoulder, and he holds her waist.

“They’re getting close,” she murmurs into to crook of his neck. “We’ll have to pull back soon. Let them have Kirkwall.”

He rubs her side. “Will you miss it?”

“Mmm. Not once my family’s out.” She reaches a hand upward, gesturing in an arc. “The sky’s my home.”

“Poetic.”

She chuckles and says, “I thought so. I gave up my career as a bard to be a Warden, you know. It was a tough decision.”

“Do you regret it?”

She lifts her head to look into his eyes. He stares back until she smiles, soft and knowing. “Not at all,” she says, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat.

***

Steelwing takes off from the aerie the moment his saddle and supplies are detached. Amell shakes her head as she watches him go, and Fenris shoulders the saddlebag. “Kindred spirits,” he remarks, and Amell grins wryly.

They report directly to Commander Sylvia. Amell delivers the tale with her usual flair, though there are no easy smiles or drunken laughs. There are bruises beneath Sylvia’s eyes, and her hand-waving is less frantic and more exhausted.

“Why don’t you ever bring me good news?” she asks when the report is finished.

Amell’s mouth twists as she says, “There’s none to bring.”

It is true enough. Every passing week the darkspawn grow closer, and the Wardens are not beating them back enough to make a difference. They gain ground only to lose it with the next surge from the west. Their losses pile up, and victory has never been so unlikely.

Amell and Fenris stay near Kirkwall, tracking the horde’s advance. They are baffled to discover a Dalish camp hidden just past the outskirts of Kirkwall. The Blight has pushed them from the Planasene Forest, otherwise they would not dare to venture so close to the city. There is a group of darkspawn ahead of the horde that advances on them; the Dalish will be overtaken soon.

Steelwing flies for Kirkwall. Amell and Fenris do not wait for a landing, instead dropping in the streets. Citizens make way for them as they sprint to the Warden-Commander. Amell barks at the chamberlain, who knows better by now than to deny her access, regardless of Sylvia’s schedule. They make a dramatic entrance, interrupting a meeting between Sylvia and the Viscount’s seneschal.

“Commander, we need to evacuate the city,” says Amell, saluting as she speaks. “We can’t hold it off any longer.”

Sylvia stands, ignoring the seneschal’s disgruntled look. “Report, Lieutenant,” she orders.

“There’s a group of darkspawn ahead of the horde, at least a hundred strong. They’ve made the east plains. There’s a Dalish clan that’ll slow them down, but not for long.”

“How many Dalish?” asks Sylvia. She returns to her seat to flip over a sheet of parchment, scrawling on the back.

“Forty or so? They must’ve been hit already.” Amell’s mouth settles into a hard line as Sylvia continues her note. “Commander-”

Sylvia stands, thrusting the parchment into Amell’s hands. “Take this to Constable Arran, and prepare for battle. You’re going to lead him there.”

“Ser, we haven’t the time or riders to waste with skirmishes.”

“That’s not your call.” Sylvia’s expression is hard, her voice harder. “Don’t lose sight of why you joined this Order. We protect the innocent.”

“That’s not why I joined,” Amell hisses.

Anger sets in Sylvia’s jaw. “You’ll keep your oaths, Warden. If I hear one more insubordinate word from your mouth, I’ll strip your rank.”

“Yes, ser,” says Amell through gritted teeth.

***

The aerie is a flurry of noise and activity, but Amell is silent as they gear up. Steelwing catches her mood, squawking and scraping his talons against the roost. They are tensed with energy, ready to fight.

Fenris touches her arm and leans in to ask, “What is it?”

“What is what?” she snaps.

He moves his hands to her hips, stalling her nervous movement. “You are afraid,” he says. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not.” She wriggles in his grasp, and he holds firm. She sighs. “I’m angry. We should’ve evacuated a week ago.”

“Your fear causes your anger. What causes your fear?”

She presses her lips into a thin line. He sees the moment she stops resisting, the deep exhale and the sag of her shoulders. She leans forward to rest her head on his shoulder.

“We have to get them out, Fenris.”

“We will.”

“We have to do it _now_. The more riders we throw away on the Dalish, the less there are to carry refugees.”

He leans down, pressing his nose to her hair. “Your family is noble,” he says after a breath. “They will be among the first.”

She grunts and says, “I still think it’s stupid.”

“The Dalish are victims of the Blight as well.”

“I don’t give a damn.” She pulls away, looking up at him with a fierce expression. “This Blight’s claimed hundreds of thousands, and I don’t give a damn about one of them.” Her voice breaks as she whispers, “Not a single one. Isn’t that awful?”

“Caring for them will not save them.” He shakes his head, brushing back her hair. “Your actions will save them.”

“If it were up to me, I’d leave them all to die.”

“That is why these things are not left to people like us. When they are, the world burns.”

She huffs softly, blinking tears from her eyes. “We’re not the heroes.”

“No. And we do not have to be.” He pulls her in closer to say, “Let go of your guilt and your fear. There’s a battle to fight.”

Her breath evens out, and she swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. There are still tracks of moisture on her cheeks when she looks up at him and says, “Isn’t there always?”

***

The Wardens strike out in a burst of wide grey wings and blue-and-silver armor. There are two riders to every griffon, claws and silver teeth bared. They will not conquer the horde, but they will fight. It is the battle never won but always fought, no matter how many heroes it claims. They will keep their vigil until they too hear the demon’s call; they will embrace death before they join the foe, succumbing to a Taint that cannot be mastered.

The citizens of Kirkwall gather to watch them take flight. The shout of “Lift!” echoes through the streets, and the griffons rise in waves to cheers and battle cries. It is a necessary spectacle. Still Fenris disdains the eyes, knowing that they will shape heroes out of men no matter how much contortion it requires.

The sun hangs heavy and orange ahead of them, prepared to set. Fighting in the dark will give their enemy the advantage, but the Dalish cannot wait until morning.

Amell leads only because she knows the way. The thrill of battle thrums in her despite her reservations; Fenris can see it in the tense line of her body, the sharp gaze she turns on the world ahead of them. He feels it in himself, in the Taint coursing through his veins. He is a part of this fight down to his very blood.

They soar past Kirkwall and her outskirts as a great flock, bearing down on the battlefield. Already the Dalish engage the darkspawn, firing arrows in the fray. They make their last stand, prepared to fall. When Steelwing screeches above them, the battle halts for an infinitesimal second. When it resumes, it is just as desperate and twice as fierce.

Fenris clenches his thighs around the saddle as they draw near. Amell leans into the dive, throwing her weight to her right side. They do not speak; Amell launches from Steelwing’s back and into the battle with a crack, splitting the darkspawn forces down the middle with a wall of jagged ice.

Fenris pulls on the reins and circles around. The remainder of the Wardens split up to head for the front lines and the right flank; Amell remains on the left, and Fenris banks to join her. He draws his sword and holds it in a thrusting position as they slide into the landing.

The earth tears beneath Steelwing’s claws, and the nearest darkspawn are thrown backward. Fenris spears a shriek on his sword and kicks it off before dismounting, forcing his momentum into a swing. Blood obscures his vision, and he wipes his eyes before lunging at the next enemy.

Steelwing shreds flesh with his claws, keeping darkspawn from Fenris with wide swipes of his wing. The sharp edge of Fenris’ sword cuts through anything that enters its range. It is more slaughter than battle until their advantage of surprise fades, and the darkspawn swarm around them with howls and gnashing teeth. The ground shakes with the steps of massive ogres, met by the strike of Warden steel.

Amell ducks beneath Steelwing’s strikes to appear at Fenris’ other flank, taking heat with the sweep of her staff and a litany of frost spells. They move together fluidly, aware of each other, a cohesive unit that functions as one. Occasionally there is a bolt of ice that streams past his face, but Amell’s aim is true. She alternates between pushing the darkspawn back and taking shots into the crowd.

Fenris keeps enemy attention as much as possible, fighting through the hits he takes. They pierce armor and flesh, spilling blood and sending waves of pain through his body. Healing magic curls around him, warm and bright. The wounds are there and gone, but new ones always take their place. Two griffons hover above the battle, both of them carrying mages who pour healing magic into their allies. Empty vials of lyrium fall from the sky; Fenris cannot count them, but he knows it is too many. He has seen what happened to mages pushed to their limits. He fights more cautiously, wary of the chinks in his armor. The darkspawn see them too, aiming their attacks at his weak spots.

The horde shrinks as the Warden forces close in on the ground. Several are still mounted, using bows from the sidelines; the Dalish hunters have joined them. Their arrows strike the darkspawn, and any who charge at them are soon met with a deadly hail. An emissary takes out one such group with a fireball that flares in the fading light. The griffon’s agony echoes across the plain. Fenris catches a flash of white wings burning and sees Aodhán leap from its back.

His attention is returned to the battle with a hurlock’s heavy strike. He grunts as the blow glances his breastplate. It is not enough to cave in his chest, but the metal digs into his skin. There is no adjusting it, so he grits his teeth and fights through the pain. The glow of healing magic dims around him.

They move east as the darkspawn decrease in number. The creatures fight to their last with no notion of surrender. They do not flee, even as it becomes clear that the Wardens will overtake them. They snarl and strike in a frenzy, tenacious and horrible until the end.

When it is over, Fenris’ breath comes heavy. He staggers with it, and Amell’s shaking fingers pry his breastplate apart. She leads him over to a hastily-stoked fire; the darkness cloaks everything outside its range, and it is impossible to see the extent of the carnage beneath their feet. Amell trips over an outstretched arm, and Fenris hisses at the pain in his side as he moves to catch her. She breathes out steadily, nods, and helps him to the fireside.

It is crowded with Wardens and the guttural sounds of the wounded. There is little magical healing; the Warden mages slump against each other, covered in thick blankets. Amell does not join them. She removes Fenris’ armor and cleans his wounds, applying salve and bandages. As she wraps the linen around his chest, he takes her hand. It is cold, and it tremors in the firelight.

“I’ll do the rest,” he says.

“Void you will.” Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. “It’s nearly finished.”

“Then it will not take me long.” He nods over to the other mages, who take warm bowls from their comrades. Amell glances over to them and turns back with a protest on her lips. “Go,” he insists. “You look like death.”

She huffs weakly, then nods as she rises. She’s unsteady on her feet. One of the Wardens notices and helps her over, placing a bowl of stew in her hands.

Fenris finishes wrapping his bandages, gritting his teeth against the wince that threatens whenever the muscles of his abdomen shift. He takes a meal and a portion of water from another Warden, resting by the fire until he is finished.

His right side screams as he rises. He eyes Amell, who rests her forehead on her knees, her breath slow and deep. He takes small, stiff steps toward Arran, who directs Wardens to and fro. There is a queue in front of him, and Fenris joins it. He shuffles forward slowly.

When he reaches Arran, the Constable’s brow furrows. “Amell’s rider?”

“Fenris,” he supplies.

“You injured, Fenris?”

“Not badly. I wanted to inquire after Aodhán.”

Arran’s expression pinches. “We flew him back to Kirkwall. He needs more healing than we can provide.”

“His wounds were severe?”

“Not as bad as they could’ve been, but we can’t do much for the burns. He should pull through.” He scans their camp, then nods to Amell. “Tell her, will you?”

“I will. Have you seen Steelwing?”

“I’d prefer not to see that bird ever again,” Arran mutters. He gestures somewhere in the darkness. “Looked fine to me, though I reckon his attendants have got a few nicks they didn’t have before. We sent him back to the aerie. Maker knows if he’s actually gone.”

“Thank you, Constable.” Fenris salutes him, and he nods, turning his attention to the next Warden.

Fenris shuffles back toward Amell, crouching in front of her. He waits until he has a handle on the pain before placing a hand on her knee. She draws in a deep breath as she wakes, blinking at him with heavy eyes.

“Aodhán and Steelwing are taken care of,” he says.

She nods, offering a small, weak smile before she drops her head.

When the sun rises, the battlefield glistens in a picture of black and red. The Wardens light the pyre just before they leave, but the stench of death follows them home.

***

The Wardens lose a griffon and two riders to injury, but there are no deaths. The Dalish are not so lucky; they number sixteen now, and even that is enough to anger the viscount. She does not like the Dalish in her city, and so Commander Sylvia resolves to send them in the first wave of evacuation. This does nothing to endear her to the viscount, but she does not seem concerned.

Preparations begin for the evacuation of Kirkwall. The streets are full of frantic activity at all hours as supplies are gathered and rosters are organized. Fenris and Amell continue to scout the front lines, reporting on the enemy’s progress. They will be lucky to have six weeks before the horde reaches the gates, and those will not hold forever. Kirkwall is no Hossberg; it cannot defend for years against an army of darkspawn. Food and clean water have already been rendered scarce by the Blight. The retreat is overdue.

Amell’s family will fly to Fortress Haine in the first wave. They depart on the morrow, and Fenris spends the last night with Amell at the estate. She will remain behind to assist Sylvia, and Fenris will take Steelwing along with Amell’s nephew and mother. His wounds have mostly healed, although flying will not be easy. He does not have a choice in the matter; and if he did, he’d do it still.

Amell trails her fingers along the lines of lyrium that curl around his arms, her breath hot on his bare chest. He thumbs her hipbone, drawing his fingers up to her ribcage and back. Her breath stutters with laughter, and she muffles it against his skin.

“You’re the worst sort of cuddler,” she says.

“Duly noted.”

They lie in contentment for a long while, the candles long burnt out. Moonlight streams in from the windows. The curtains are always parted; Amell does not like to sleep in the dark, alone. He hopes there will be plenty of moonlight while he’s gone.

“Everything’s all set?” she murmurs in the silence.

Fenris shifts, still on the edge of sleep. “For the hundredth time, yes.”

She is quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, it is a whisper. “Do you remember the first night you spent here? I told you I was afraid you’d disappear.” She clenches his arm loosely, stalling her wandering fingers. “Sometimes I forget to be afraid. Is that a good thing?”

When he does not immediately respond, she looks up. Her eyes search his for an answer, but he does not have one.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“I think it’ll make it harder when I lose you.”

“It might,” he agrees, reaching up to brush his knuckles over her chin. “But it’s meant to be hard.”

She frowns and asks, “Why? Why does caring have to be so damn difficult?”

He sighs. “Why do you always ask me these questions?”

“Because you’re clever.” She leans down to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Not everything can be outsmarted. Some things must simply be taken as they are.”

She hums. Her hand splays over his chest. She looks down at it before lifting her eyes again. “I’ll take you as you are,” she says.

“And I will do the same.”

He lifts his chin, and she responds with a kiss. She settles back in his arms, and he listens as her breathing evens out. It lulls him to sleep, gentle and steady. For the moment.

***

Amell’s family say their goodbyes. They are subdued, full of murmured words and long embraces. Fenris finds himself on the receiving end of several, and he swallows the weight that climbs in his throat. He takes off without armor or supplies to make up for the extra passengers. Nolan’s son clings to him, small fists bunched in his tunic.

Fortress Haine awaits their arrival. When they disembark, the boy bursts into sobs, and Lady Amell soothes him. They search for his father in the fray. They find Nolan and his wife clustered with the other Amells, and Fenris ensures they are all accounted for.

Before he leaves, Nolan grips his shoulder. “Thank you, Fenris,” he says. “You’ve done so much for our family. Know that I consider you a part of it. If there is anything you need, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you, Nolan. You may do the same of me.”

Nolan half-smiles, and the expression is familiar. “Take care of my sister, will you?” he asks.

Fenris nods once. Nolan lifts a hand in farewell as he leaves, and Fenris watches until the Amells disappear into the Retreat.

There are several more waves of refugees, and Fenris spends the next weeks carrying supplies and passengers to Fortress Haine. Amell is rarely with him. She is stationed in Kirkwall, overseeing tasks in the city. She regards him with envy whenever he returns.

They leave before the final waves of the evacuation. Kirkwall is startlingly empty, and they report to Commander Sylvia as ordered in full gear. She hands them an armful of reports to deliver to Warden keeps and outposts and tells them to be gone within the week. They depart before the sun sets.

They head for Orlais, cutting north to avoid the darkspawn. Stragglers from the horde have spread to overtake cities and villages along the way. The land is corrupted, and there is no hunting. They subsist on rations alone, and Steelwing is forced to stomach the hated griffon feed. He protests until he is too hungry to do so, and he nips at them daily until they reach uncorrupted land.

They take a breath when they reach the Fields of Ghislain, resting at the edge of an orchard untouched by the Blight. They camp there, crunching on sweet apples until they tire of the taste. When they move on, Amell looks back, her expression twisted into something like longing.

Orlais has not suffered the worst of the Blight, though her Wardens are kept occupied. When Amell delivers the reports of Kirkwall, they are met with weary sighs. The commanders ask questions they cannot answer, and they leave disappointment in their wake.

They head south; they will circle around Orlais and move through Ferelden with their reports, carrying supplies down the line as they go. When they reach the deserts of western Orlais, they hunt varghests for sport. There is laughter and the screeches of the dying, echoing in the wasteland.

They are bloody and windswept when they reach Adamant, and the roost attendant gives them a tight smile.

“Lieutenant Amell. Warden Fenris.” He salutes as he greets them.

“On a scale of one to ten,” says Amell, “how surprised are you that we’re both still alive?”

He glances up at Steelwing and says, “With this griffon? You would be lucky to rate a three, ser.”

Amell chuckles. The attendant seems surprised at the sound but quickly recovers. He takes the reins, and Amell pats Steelwing’s neck before hopping from the platform. Fenris takes the ladders, following her down the aerie. They reach the outer bailey in little time. It is empty now; night closes in, and the Wardens rest.

They head for the main hall, passing Wardens out of uniform. Amell stops in front of the door guard, presenting him the seal of the scroll she carries. He gestures inside, and they pass through the open doors.

Fenris finds he does not recall what the hall looks like, but he supposes it is the same. This is where he came through the Fade, and he brings the moment to mind as Amell steps forward to deliver her report. She exchanges few words with Commander Baptiste, and Fenris only half-hears them. He drifts outside himself and inhales deeply to find his way back. When he comes to, Baptiste is shouting his name.

“I thought your mind had gone to the Fade,” Baptiste sneers. He waves his hand in an impatient gesture. “Come forward. I want to keep an eye on you.”

Fenris walks forward, but he does not reach the commander. The rift flickers to life in front of him, and he is through before he can falter on the step.

***

There is no doubt, this time, of where he is. Everything in the Fade has a sickly greenish hue, from the sky to the ruins beneath his feet. The landscape is dim and covered in fog, obscured just enough to fear what lurks in the distance. The spires of the Black City pierce hazy green clouds, dark and sinister.

Fenris can feel the last three years slipping, and he goes with them. He hovers somewhere in the Fade, outside the body that stands still over its threshold. He cannot take a step. He cannot _breathe_ \- His vision goes dark, and he stumbles, snapping into himself with a wince. He sinks to his knees, panting with exertion. He clenches his fists in his gauntlets, feels the edges dig into his skin.

_Get to Hawke_. The thought once held him together, but time has forgotten it. Fenris calls on every memory he has, the good and the bad, all the moments he and Hawke shared. They pour into him, fill him up, make his limbs heavy. He draws his sword and pushes through the fog, going any of a hundred directions. There is little chance that Hawke has survived this long in the Fade. There was little to begin with, and Fenris can feel the odds decrease with every second he wastes.

Hawke is all he has--he remembers it. Remembers the feverish love that kept him at Hawke’s side, the need to be with him at every moment, the knowledge that he was everything. He was all Fenris had in the world, _but Fenris always had to share him-_

Fenris growls in his throat, banishing the creeping notions of resentment. He loves Hawke. He is devoted to Hawke. _He gave up on Hawke, left him behind, mourned him and moved on. Hawke waited, and he spent his days traveling and fighting enemies long dead-_

He will find Hawke. He must. He will not stop looking, no matter how long it takes. It is what he should have done from the start.

He knows where he is going but not how to get there, and he spends too long trying to work out which way is east before gnashing his teeth and heading back the way he came. It is good that he’s angry; he should be, he should be angry _at himself for leaving Hawke again, he swore he would never do it again-_

The ruins of Adamant are gone, or Fenris is not heading in the direction he thought he was. He picks another one and sprints until he chokes on air, then stumbles until he falls. It is while he is on his knees in the foggy wasteland that he realizes he has not come across a single demon. He has met no creature, friend or foe.

His purposefully evens his breathing and then stops, listening to the Fade around him. He hears nothing, sees nothing but barren earth and fog. He is alone.

He rises to his feet, shuffling towards nothing and away from nothing. He walks, then limps, then crawls until his gauntlet is submerged in a pool of water. He leans forward to drink from it, cooling the burn in his throat. He stands on shaky legs, wading forward through water that comes up to his knees. He knows it will go no higher because-

He stops, his heart thrumming painfully, a sharp twist that nearly knocks him on his feet. He knows because he has been here before, this little clearing in the Dales. He and Hawke made camp by the river and explored the ruins by twilight. There were patterns carved into the earth and cracked statuettes covered in moss, and Hawke peeled the vines away from a stone face and said it was Mythal-

The temple. The elvish ruin deep in the Dales where they kissed under a full moon, and Hawke said it was the moment he realized he would never be able to live without Fenris _and Fenris betrayed him, forgot, left him here-_

But he’s here now, and he summons the strength to take a step forward, and another. He slips through the ruins, guided by memory, following the mossy walls until-

“Hawke.”

The figure kneels beneath the light of a false moon overhead _and Fenris thinks of the way Amell can’t sleep in the dark-_

He rises when he hears Fenris’ voice, and when he turns-

“I knew you’d come,” Hawke whispers into the stillness.

_But he didn’t, he left, and he can never be forgiven-_

“Fenris.”

Hawke’s arms wrap around him _and he doesn’t deserve it-_

Hawke is warm and solid, breath strong in his lungs. Fenris’ pulse flutters; he sags, falling against him.

“It’s not over yet,” says Hawke. He pulls Fenris’ arm across his back, shouldering the weight. “We still have to go to the rift and get out of here. It’s this way.”

Fenris allows Hawke to move him, staggering along in his wake. “Why is it so empty?” he mutters.

“I killed everything that lived in this demesne; it’s mine now. We won’t run into trouble.”

They don’t run into anything at all but more fog and an endless, flat stretch of earth. Fenris doubts they can find their way back, but Hawke keeps moving, and he is powerless to do anything but follow, _the way he’s always been-_

The ruins of Adamant rise from the fog, and Fenris stumbles over the stone. Hawke half-drags him to the main hall, standing before the site of the rift, staring into the emptiness.

“Hawke,” Fenris croaks.

“It’ll open.” Hawke shifts Fenris’ weight as he talks, too fast to keep up. “This place is riddled with unstable magic. It responds to you. Now that you’re here, it’ll open.”

“What?”

“It’s the lyrium. And the Veil’s always been thin here. Some event sundered it ages ago, and it’s never quite recovered. That’s how Ellana was able to open a rift in the first place.”

Fenris eyes him, breathing shallowly. “How do you know any of this?”

“Don’t ask me that, Fenris,” he says. “You won’t like the answer.”

The air cracks in front of them. The light of the rift is blinding, and Fenris shields his eyes against it. He can hear Hawke shouting, feel himself being pulled through. He stumbles, but Hawke is steady against him, and they emerge from the Fade in each other’s arms.

***

Fenris can feel the touch of healing magic on his skin. Faces pass in blurs, and sound comes back to him slowly. He sinks into himself, curling his fingers around the hand loosely clasped in his. He opens his eyes and sees a face he never thought to see again, except in nightmares.

Hawke looks exactly the same. He is freshly-shaven, his hair mussed from battle. Blood stains his robes, still fresh enough to drip onto the stone. He crouches before Fenris, who looks around to discover that he is still at the site of the rift. It’s closed behind him, and he reaches a hand out unconsciously, not realizing it’s his until Hawke takes it and brings it to his lips.

Fenris looks for evidence that it wasn’t all a fever dream or a trick of the Fade--he finds it in the griffon on his breastplate, the blue-and-silver lines of his tabard. The ensemble is splattered with varghest blood but still intact. He pulls one hand away from Hawke to reach into a leather pouch at his belt; his fingers close around a cracked piece of hardtack. He pulls it out, staring at it for a long moment.

Hawke’s hand closes around his. Fenris finds his eyes, focusing on the two points of amber. _This is real_ . He looks down at his armor. _That was real_.

He cannot quite reconcile the two. He drinks from his waterskin as Hawke and Ellana address the Wardens. She is just as tired and not a moment older. His gaze sweeps over the ruin of Adamant. The Wardens, despondent and regretful. The Inquisition, triumphant. Ellana standing tall despite her weariness, her voice ringing out with surety. It is as though he never left.

His awareness returns with food, water, and healing. Hawke kisses him softly and disappears into the crowd, where others need him. Varric takes his place, settling next to Fenris with a grunt.

“This shit just keeps getting weirder, doesn’t it?” he sighs. His hand settles on Fenris’ shoulder. “Glad you made it out, Broody.”

Fenris wipes the blood from his face in lieu of a response.

“I am curious, though,” says Varric. “Where did this ensemble come from?”

Fenris looks down at it again, frowning at the griffon. _It was real._ He repeats it to himself until he is certain. Then he starts on, _This is real_. By the time he believes it, Hawke has returned to inform him of their journey to Weisshaupt. He stands before Fenris, who stares at his knees, his eyes slowly traveling to upward.

Fenris surges to his feet, crushing Hawke’s arms to his sides in an embrace. Hawke laughs and says, “I missed you too,” before covering Fenris’ mouth with his own.

It is not the same. Fenris knows now that he can live without this kiss, without these hands anchoring him in reality. Hawke was gone, and he survived. He healed. He loved again. And he lost again.

When they part, Fenris turns back to gaze at the site of the rift. Amell is centuries dead. He will never see Thedas from the skies again, plains and mountains and seas sprawled beneath him, all within his reach. He traded one war-torn world for another. He wonders if he will ever live in a world without war, if he could reach for one through the Fade.

Hawke brushes a hand against his jaw, gently turning him back. He searches Fenris’ eyes, asking, “Where are you?”

“Here,” says Fenris. “I am here.”

“Mmm. We both are.” Hawke’s hand slides into his, and he glances up at the stars. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? That we found each other?”

“Hard to believe,” Fenris murmurs.

“I’ll tell Varric to use that one as the title for his next book.”

Fenris places his hands on either side of Hawke’s face, tracing his cheekbones with his thumbs. “Let’s not tell this story,” he says.

Hawke sighs. “It’s not up to me, love.”

It seems nothing is up to them, anymore. But now Fenris knows what life is like when he is neither slave nor hero, and he wonders if he would be better off forgetting.

 

* * *

**  
EPILOGUE**

The journey to the Anderfels is longer on horseback. There are times Fenris looks at the sky and sees the outline of griffons against the setting sun, his two realities fused. There are times he wakes from his nightmares and feels Amell’s callused fingers trailing over his arm.

Hawke tells no tales of his time in the Fade, and he does not ask about the Joining amulet that Fenris will not remove. They have never told each other everything. Fenris did not think to resent it, before.

When they reach Weisshaupt, Fenris searches out the quiet of the chantry. He kneels before Andraste’s feet and does not pray. His questions have no answers, and he does not ask them; he sits on his ankles and feels the Taint thrum his blood.

He must tell Hawke. The secret cannot be kept forever. But he keeps it for now, prolonging the inevitable.

One day he must turn and face the tiger. Today, he clutches the amulet around his neck and whispers:

_In war, victory._

_In peace, vigilance._

_In death, sacrifice._


End file.
